


Fried Chicken For Christmas

by BlueSimplicity



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Fluff, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Fluff and Crack, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Arthur, Trans Secondary Character, Transphobia, WinterKnights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-07 01:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12830919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSimplicity/pseuds/BlueSimplicity
Summary: When Vivian makes a comment to their friends, insinuating that Arthur is not the most passionate of people, hurt and embarrassed, Arthur decides to make her a homemade Christmas feast to prove that he can be romantic. After he almost sets the building on fire three times, help comes to him in the form of his neighbour from 514, a tall lanky fellow named Merlin, with two of the worst behaved dogs Arthur has ever encountered, who offers to teach him how to cook.Except, as their lessons progress, Arthur slowly comes to realise that Vivian may not be the one he really wants to cook for. But only if he has the courage to let go of all of his fears, and reach for the one thing he truly wants for Christmas.WARNINGS – This story contains an exploded microwave, opaque blob, a blorp, and mentions of inappropriate sexual acts performed on turkeys. But also, a little bit of holiday cheer and a whole lot of love.





	Fried Chicken For Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> My whole hearted thanks to my beta schweet_heart. She went out of her way to get this fic back to me in a reasonable time, and her comments and feedback were spot on and made this fic so much better than it was originally. She deserves all the kudos and good things, because seriously, she was AMAZING. Any and all remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Also, my endless thanks to the mods of this fest. I’m a relative newbie to the fandom as well as writing, and I was so happy I got to participate in WinterKnights this year. Thanks so much for all of your hard work and effort, and keeping this holiday collection alive. <3
> 
> Lastly, all of the recipes used in this story were based on ones I found on Nigella Lawson’s website. Some of them sounded absolutely wonderful, and others, well, let’s just say I agreed with Arthur. =)
> 
> **Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

 

**FRIED CHICKEN FOR CHRISTMAS**

The first time Arthur actually spoke to his neighbour from 514, it was as he was trying to discreetly drop a plate full of burnt brussel sprouts down the rubbish chute. The recipe had said a bit of garlic would give it flavour, but it didn’t say exactly how much to add. And okay, it was possible he should have looked up the difference between a bunch of garlic and a clove, but, seriously, how the hell was he supposed to know that six bunches of garlic was too bloody much, and that that shit burned when you left the skin on, and that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t have left it unattended in the oven while he went to finish up some last minute reports for his father.

 

Except now his kitchen - fuck, his entire loft (and, if he was being truly honest, the entire floor hallway) absolutely _reeked_ \- and Morgana was going to laugh her arse off if he called her and Gwen to ask for advice.

 

He was trying to balance the platter (and all right, he knew _now_ that he should probably have used a roasting pan instead of a plate to broil the stupid things, but he had honestly thought that would have saved him a step, if, in the end, not the platter) when the guy stepped off the lift to their floor, into the hallway, and started to gag.

 

Arthur had seen the bloke before, usually coming in and out of the lift or down by the letterboxes on his way to and from work. He had moved in a few months ago, and was often accompanied by his two dogs, a huge mutt Arthur thought must have been a mix between a St. Bernard and werewolf, and a small, white fluff ball of a thing Arthur was sure he had rescued from the lint screen of one of the building’s dryers. Arthur knew their names were Kilgarrah and Aithusa, as he often heard the man shouting at them as he made his way down the hallway, usually along the lines of _“Goddammit Kilgarrah, put that down!”_ and _“No Aithusa, no! You can’t eat Mrs. Richardson’s newspaper!”_ but he didn’t know the guy’s name personally.

 

He was a tall, thin, beanpole of a fellow, with a mop of the darkest hair Arthur had ever seen (and his sister had gone through a whole Goth phase back in her teen years), usually dressed in a white polo with blue trimming, and a pair of navy track pants. He had a loping, gangly walk and huge ears. He was as pale as milk, and Arthur had even once wondered if he was a vampire of some sort, an assumption he was currently revisiting as the man coughed and gasped at the burnt garlic smell, as he walked past.

 

All he knew now was that the man was currently staring at him as he made his way to his door, digging his keys out of his pocket.

 

“Sorry,” Arthur mumbled, as he shoved the burnt garlic, platter, tea towel and all into the rubbish chute. “But hey, at least it’ll keep any vampires away, yeah?”

 

The guy gagged, wiped at his eyes, and gave Arthur a glare before he slammed his door shut.

 

“Oh come on, it’s not _that_ bad!” Arthur called, before he went back to his own flat, where he proceeded to spend the rest of the night sleeping in a freezing bedroom, because he had to open all of the windows, coughing himself and wondering how the bloody hell he was going to get the smell out.

 

***

 

The second time Arthur actually spoke to his neighbour from 514, it was three nights later, as Arthur was trying to quietly toss his microwave into the rubbish bins in the alley behind their building. And okay, yes, maybe the microwave was still smoking as he lugged it towards the bin, but after it had sparked and the door had blown off, Arthur just wanted to get the stupid thing out of his flat before it could set anything else on fire. The recipe had said to wrap the potatoes in foil for a nice softness and bake for twenty minutes. Arthur was only trying to save some time, and he knew that you could cook potatoes in the microwave, but apparently aluminum foil and microwaves were not something to _ever_ be combined, and well, some sparks, a burnt fuse and a doorless microwave later, here he was.

 

It was as he was trying to decide whether doorless, still smoking, cooking equipment went into regular rubbish or the recycling bin, that the bloke turned the corner into the alley, his two dogs in tow. He must have just finished having a conversation on his mobile, as he was shoving it into his back pocket when he looked up, saw Arthur, and then the charred and steaming microwave in his hands, and froze.

 

“Errr….” Arthur said, feeling himself blush. And wasn’t that just the bloody icing on the cake. He was a Pendragon after all, and Pendragons most certainly _did not blush_ (or at least they didn’t according to his father). But his father wasn’t there at the moment, standing with an exploded microwave in his arms, while a skinny man and his pet werewolf and cotton ball all stared at him with wide eyes.

 

“You wouldn’t happen to know if microwaves are recyclable or not, would you?” Arthur finally managed to ask. The bloke just continued to stare at him and then at the microwave some more, before he rolled his eyes, shook his head and pulled his dogs closer to him, turning around and quickly walking back the way he had come.

 

“Tosser,” Arthur mumbled, as he chucked the blackened microwave into the regular bin and then gave it a kick for good measure. Except now, he had no microwave, a fuse box he had to find, and a sore toe.

 

***

 

It was two days later when Arthur spoke to his neighbour from 514 for the third time. Or, more precisely, coughed at him when the bloke burst into his kitchen, an extinguisher in his hands, looking around desperately in search of the fire. It was actually hard to talk to someone when you were gasping for air and the smoke detector in your flat was blaring like an air raid warning.

 

And yes, Arthur could admit that maybe, just maybe, he had bitten off more than he could chew. And that no, he had absolutely no idea what he was doing and he probably shouldn’t be taking any shortcuts. But seriously, it was a twenty pound turkey and the instructions said 15 minutes for each pound. Arthur had done the math, and that would have taken at least five hours. Who the hell had five bloody hours to spend cooking a turkey, when seriously, there were other things he could be doing? So, very logically, Arthur had turned up the oven nob to 550, taken a shower, and then sat down to work on yet another report for his father, getting so lost in the numbers and the details that he hadn’t noticed the smell. Or the smoke.

 

But he did notice the fire alarm once it went off, and then the flames when he ran into his kitchen to check on forgotten turkey. Except by then, the entire room was filled with smoke, and burnt turkey smell, and _oh shite, where the fuck was his mobile_ , and _what the fuck did he do now_?

 

That was when Mr. 514 came pounding through his door, into the kitchen, and proceeded drown Arthur’s smoking oven in fire foam.

 

Arthur was still coughing as the man opened the window, glanced around, his fire extinguisher held in his arms like a knight holding his sword, saw Arthur and said,

 

“ _What! The! Bloody! Fuck?_ ”

 

***

 

**_Two Weeks Earlier_ **

 

“So what you’re saying Arthur,” Morgana said, as she took a sip from her Bellini. “Is that you think that that cow you’re dating is going to break up with you, because she said you’re not romantic enough?”

 

“Her name is Vivian, Morgana,” Arthur said, for what must have been the thousandth time. It was their bi-weekly brunch date, and he was sitting in Morgana and Gwen’s lovely little kitchen in their small flat in SoHo, trying to explain his situation. He loved his half-sister, actually adored her, even if he would never admit to it publicly. But if there was one thing, and it was probably the only thing, she shared with their father, it was how harsh she could be when it came to someone she didn’t like. And Morgana had never liked Vivian, and she had no problems expressing her dislike whenever she and Arthur spoke.

 

“But I thought things were going well between the two of you,” Gwen interrupted, as she picked up a scone, broke it into two and placed half on Morgana’s plate and half on her own, as Morgana smiled at her. “It’s been what, almost a year now?”

 

“Eleven months actually,” Arthur answered. As if his father would ever let him forget. It was all Uther seemed to talk about when Arthur saw him during their monthly suppers, the only time they actually interacted outside of work. _It’s been eleven months now Arthur, when are you going to stop wasting time and ask Vivian to marry you?_ And, _This is a bit ridiculous Arthur. It’s time for you to start acting like a grown up. Vivian is a lovely girl, and she comes from an excellent family, and you two would be a perfect match._ And, _I knew I wanted to marry your mother within a week of meeting her Arthur. It’s been eleven months already, that’s more than long enough to make a decision._ And, _You’re 27 years old Arthur. You need to settle down already. Once you do, once you’ve proven you’re mature enough to begin a family of your own, I can start handing more of the management responsibilities at Pendragon Industries over to you._

 

Arthur loved Vivian. He knew he did. She was everything anyone could ever want from a girlfriend. She was beautiful and elegant, and she understood the ins and outs of Arthur’s social circle. They both enjoyed going to the symphony together and she could be charming and funny when the situation warranted it. She seemed to understand his drive to further his career and actually encouraged it. And Arthur had been a good boyfriend, or at least he thought he had. She never complained when he took her to the symphony, or all of the best restaurants in London. And she seemed to love the flowers and jewelry Arthur purchased for her (and all right, Arthur did have his PA George select the items, but he did pay for them, and made sure to do it quite regularly), but still, the thought was still there. So it had come as quite a shock to him when during their last supper with friends, Vivian had laughed at a comment Sofia had made about the lovely vacation she and her fiancé Val had just taken, and said “Well, yes that sounds lovely, Sof. But I prefer something a bit longer lasting myself. Arthur may not be big on grand gestures, but he makes up for it in other ways.” And with that, Vivian had leaned forward to show Sofia the lovely pearl earrings Arthur (George) had recently picked out for her.

 

Arthur had been stunned, embarrassed, and a bit hurt. It had led to a conversation later that evening where Vivian, her carefully manicured hand resting on his arm, had told him, “Oh, don’t be bothered by that darling. No, you’re not the most passionate man out there, but that’s for other people, not us. And I do love you so, and I know that you love me.” With that, she had kissed his cheek, her soft scent surrounding Arthur as she unclipped her hair and proceeded to wrap her arms around him.

 

And that was why Arthur was now sitting with Morgana and Gwen over brunch, trying to convince them all that Vivian was wrong, that he could be romantic, and he sure as hell was more passionate than that luddite Val.

 

“Well, lord knows I hate to agree with anything that cow says, but maybe she’s right,” Morgana was saying now.

 

“Her name’s Viv- _Hey!_ ” Arthur said.

 

“I mean _really_ Arthur,” Morgana went on, undeterred. “What have you done that’s been exceptionally romantic?”

 

“Um, the jewelry, the flowers, the dinners at-“

 

“Yes, yes, yes, all the better things in life. It’s quite easy when you have more money than you know what to do with and an assistant that can take care of all of the smaller details for you,” Morgana said with a wave of her hand. And Arthur knew, _he knew_ , that she wasn’t taking a jab at him for his inheritance, or the fact that things had always been easier for him financially than her, especially after their father had disowned her. She had gone through some very difficult times, but that had been years ago. Her high-end consignment shop was doing well, so well that Arthur knew she now had contracts with several studios and wardrobe consultants who frequented her store when they were looking for just the right pieces for whatever productions they were currently working on. And Arthur knew she knew, or at least he hoped she knew, that he would always be there for her, no matter what. But still, the comment had hurt.

 

His sister was looking at him as she spoke, and she must have seen the way his face had tightened, because her expression softened, and she leaned forward and gently took his hand, her long, boney fingers wrapping around his own. As he looked down, noticing how she had painted her nails a deep, cherry red, in that moment she became his big sister again. The one he remembered from his childhood, who would come into his room during stormy nights and lie with him, because she knew he was afraid. Or who always placed herself between him and Uther when his father was in one of his rages because of some perceived failure of Arthur’s. Or who went with him once he had finally found the location of his mother’s grave and stood quietly by his side as he laid the flowers gently on her tombstone and quietly cried for the woman he had never had the opportunity to know. This was the Morgana he knew and loved and adored, even if the words were ones he could never speak aloud.

 

“Arthur.” Her voice was gentle and chiding as she spoke. “As I was saying, I hate to agree with anything that co-Vivian says, but the truth is, there’s more to relationships and romance than fancy gifts and expensive restaurants.”

 

“Like what?” Arthur was honestly confused. “What does Gwen do for you that’s so different than what I’ve done for Vivian?” Morgana looked at Gwen at his words, and smiled. He had never seen a smile so soft or as beautiful as he did when Morgana smiled at Gwen.

 

“She cooks for me,” Morgana said simply.

 

“But,” Arthur leaned back, letting go of Morgana’s hand, “how’s that any different than dinner at _Club Gascon_?”

 

“It’s different because it is,” Morgana answered. “There’s something about coming home, after a long day to a hot meal waiting for you and a house that smells wonderful. That Gwen took the time, and _the effort_ , to make me something delicious to eat, when I know she’s been on her feet all day and is just as tired as I am.” Gwen was a nurse who worked in pediatric oncology. Arthur thought she was one of the strongest women he had ever met; she had to be, to be with Morgana.

 

“I love cooking for you, Morgs,” Gwen said. “And I’ve told you, it relaxes me.”

 

“I know.” Morgana leaned over to kiss her cheek. “But I still appreciate it, every single meal.” Arthur watched the two of them, something a little warm and, he had to admit a little jealous, clenching in his heart.

 

“And what about ‘Gana, Gwen? What does she do that’s so romantic for you?” he asked, honestly curious.

 

“She does the dishes.” Gwen laughed. But then she paused, took a bite from her scone, and smiled at Morgana. “And she knits for me.” For all of her love of designer bags and couture dresses, his sister loved to wrap Gwen in fuzzy, brightly-coloured socks and scarves. Arthur and Gwen were the only ones who knew of her secret knitting fetish, and she had threatened Arthur with life and limb if he told anyone. Arthur appreciated his bollocks too much to risk ever telling anyone else.

 

“It’s not about the money, Arthur,” Morgana was explaining. “It’s about the care. And the effort.  Making room for someone, in your life and your heart, because you want to. Because you need them there.” Gwen was nodding as she spoke.

 

“That somebody would take the time to do something for you, simply because they know it would make you happy. Not because they have to, but because they want to. Because your happiness is just as important as their own,” Gwen added. “That’s what romance is all about, yeah.”

 

Arthur spread a bit of jam on his own scone as he contemplated their words. He couldn’t imagine Vivian ever wearing a fuchsia striped scarf with purple tassels. But she did seem to really enjoy all of those suppers at Michelin starred restaurants. And the holidays were coming up. What could be more romantic than a homemade Christmas feast with all of the trimmings?  He would show Sofia and Val, and even his sister and Gwen, that he could be romantic. And then Vivian would have her own story to tell at the next cocktail party they attended.

 

“Right then,” he said with a nod, coming to a decision. “Christmas supper it is.”

 

“What?” Morgana asked, turning to look at him.

 

“It’ll be perfect. I’ll make Vivian a traditional Christmas meal, with all of the sides,” he announced. Both Gwen and Morgana were staring at him, their eyes wide.

 

“Um, Arthur…Have you ever cooked a meal in your life?” Gwen’s voice was soft and hesitant as she spoke, as if she were speaking to a very young and very spoilt child.

 

“Well no, but honestly. Everyone seems to do it. How hard can it be?”

 

***

 

“So what you’re saying is,” Mr. 514 said. His name was Merlin, Arthur had discovered as the two of them stood by his open window, waving tea towels in the air, hoping to clear the smoke out.  “Is that your girlfriend called you a bit of a cold fish, your sister agreed with her, and then she and her girlfriend  laughed at you, and so you decided to try making Christmas supper on your own, and that’s why you’ve almost _set the building on fire three times_ _this week?”_

 

“I didn’t almost set the building on fire!” Arthur felt the need to explain. Merlin looked at him, at the space on Arthur’s countertop where his microwave used to sit, at the blackened box that used to be Arthur’s oven, and then back at Arthur before arching an eyebrow. Arthur glanced down at the tea towel he was waving (he was going to have to order another set, wasn’t he? Along with an oven), heaved a sigh, and felt his shoulders slump. “All right, maybe I did. But how the hell was I supposed to know the difference between a bunch and a clove of garlic? Or that you’re not supposed to put foil in the microwave? Or, the whole, you know, turkey thing? It was supposed to be romantic, you know, a nice, traditional, Christmas supper. Not some bloody fire hazard.” Arthur paused to take a breath. “Stupid fucking turkey.” 

 

There was a noise then, loud and bright, and Arthur was almost worried that it was the smoke alarm again. But when he looked up, it was to see Merlin, hunched over himself, in the middle of a fit of laughter.

 

“It’s not funny!” Arthur snapped. Merlin glanced up, his cheeks now streaked with tears, saw Arthur’s face, and burst into another round of giggles. And maybe there was something contagious about it, or maybe it was the smoke, or Arthur had to admit, the garlic fumes, which he so far hadn’t been able to get rid of, but Arthur felt the corners of his mouth beginning to twitch, before he started to laugh too.

 

It took ten minutes, during which most of the smoke, if not the smell, had cleared away, before the two of them finally managed to settle down. Merlin was sitting at Arthur’s kitchen table, wiping his face with a paper napkin (Arthur was definitely going to have to order another set of tea towels), when he looked up, and actually smiled at Arthur. It was then that Arthur noticed that Merlin actually had a rather nice face, with high cheekbones, and plush lips. And a wide smile that somehow managed to be a little sharp, a little sly, but also a little kind as he turned it toward Arthur.

 

“It is actually rather sweet, you know. What you’re trying to do,” he said eventually.

 

“Yeah, well,” Arthur grumbled. “It’s not been working out too well so far, has it?” Arthur hated to admit defeat. He _hated_ it. Gwen and Morgana were going to laugh at him, his father would give him a speech about Pendragons never giving up, and Vivian was going to keep on thinking he wasn’t passionate, just because he couldn’t figure out how to make one, single, stupid meal on his own.

 

“Bit of a rhetorical question there, isn’t it mate?”

 

“I just didn’t think it would be this hard,” Arthur admitted. “I mean, I looked everything up online, and all the recipes looked straightforward enough. But apparently, I can’t even get that right.” He sighed and then leaned back in his chair, clenching the ruined tea towel in his hand. Three failed cooking attempts in five days. That had to be a record. Arthur was so busy feeling sorry for himself that he almost missed Merlin’s next words.

 

“I could help you, if you like.”

 

“What?” Arthur asked, lifting his head.

 

“I said, I could help you, if you wanted,” Merlin said.

 

“Really? You’d do that? Why?”

 

At this, Merlin shrugged. “Why not? I think it’s really lovely what you’re trying to do for your girlfriend. And cooking’s not that hard, not really. It just takes a bit of practice, and someone to show you the ropes. I like to cook, and I’m not half bad at it.” Here Merlin paused, and Arthur could see he was trying to hold back another round of giggles. “Besides, I like living here, and I’d really rather you didn’t burn the place to the ground, thank you very much. So what do you say?”

 

And that was how it began.

 

***

 

Seven days, one new microwave, a freshly installed oven, and a visit from a cleaning service later, Arthur was sat at his kitchen table next to Merlin, looking over a pile of ingredients that included a bottle of sherry, currants, dried cherries, raisins, sultanas, flour, bread crumbs, brown sugar, cinnamon, cloves, baking powder, a lemon, an apple, honey, three eggs and, to Arthur’s disgust, a lump of suet. Arthur had no idea why the suet was there, but, well, maybe that was what the bottle of sherry was for, because he knew he was going to have to drink at least half of it before he could bring himself to touch the strangely opaque blob that seemed to be staring back at him.

 

They had spent the week texting each other, after _The Night That Shall Never Be Mentioned Again_ (according to Arthur), where he and Merlin went over the list of what he had hoped to make for his romantic Christmas supper, or _Viv’s Pow ‘Em and Wow ‘Em_ (according to Merlin). After a few removals and one or two additions, said list now included:

 

_Mulled Cider_

_Mince Pies_

_Christmas Buns_

_Roasted Potatoes_

_Brussel Sprouts and Chestnuts_

_Turkey_

_Stuffing_

_Cranberry Sauce_

_Christmas Pudding_

 

Merlin had generously agreed to come over a few nights a week to do a run through of each of the items, where he would help, but Arthur would still do most of the cooking while also taking notes. As Arthur glanced at the strangely opaque blob once more, (it was staring at him, he didn’t care what Merlin said) he was glad that he had decided to start practicing several weeks early. It was now only the first week in December, and Merlin had assured him that was plenty of time to teach Arthur everything he needed to know in order to cook Vivian her Christmas feast.

 

“Right, so, I know it’s going to sound counter-intuitive to start with the dessert first, but trust me on this, you’re going to want to let the Christmas pudding store for a while, the longer the better. That way the flavours can really infuse, and you’ll have a lovely pudding on Christmas day,” Merlin was saying now. Once he had stopped gasping and coughing from the smoke, he had a rather deep voice, soft and rolling with a slight Welsh accent. It was actually quite soothing to listen to, Arthur thought, until his words penetrated Arthur’s staring contest with the opaque blob, and Arthur heard what he had actually said.

 

“Wait – What?” he asked. “I’m going to have to store it for a while? Where? In my fridge?”

 

“No, not your fridge,” Merlin answered. “Just someplace dark and cool. The bottom of your wardrobe should be fine.”

 

“You want me to store it in my wardrobe? _Next to my shoes?_ ” Arthur was horrified.

 

“We’re going to seal it really well.” Merlin was laughing. “Trust me, it’ll be fine. And it doesn’t have to be next to your shoes. It can be under your bed. Anyplace really, as long as it’s cool and dark, like I said, yeah.”

 

“I am not sleeping with _that thing-_ ” and here Arthur pointed to the opaque blob, “-under my bed _Me_ rlin.”

 

“Right,” Merlin sighed. “This is going to be a long couple of weeks. Pass the sherry, would you?”

 

“I knew it!” Arthur hissed, but he passed the bottle over none-the-less.

 

Except, as the evening progressed, Arthur found that Merlin really did seem to know what he was doing. He was a very patient teacher, answering all of Arthur’s questions calmly as they soaked and chopped and steeped and melted ( _“Ha!! Stare at me will you, take that, you evil opaque blob.” “Pass me the sherry again, would you Arthur? No, no, I don’t need a glass, straight from the bottle is fine.”_ ), until a few hours later, Arthur had a tightly wrapped and sealed Christmas pudding that he only had to steam for three hours come Christmas day, and then douse in vodka before he set it on fire. (Arthur was looking forward to that part. Merlin said he was seriously worried about Arthur’s eyebrows.) They had decided that the best place for it was on the bottom shelf of Arthur’s linen cupboard, (melted or not, Arthur didn’t care, he was not storing that opaque blob anywhere near his shoes), and were just tidying up when Merlin looked at him and smiled.

 

“So, how was that? Not too bad, right?” he asked.

 

“No,” Arthur answered, and he was surprised that he meant it. “Not too bad at all.” It had actually been rather fun. Then again, that could have been all the sherry they drank. But it had been a rather nice evening, his kitchen now smelled like Christmas instead of garlic and burnt bird corpse, and Arthur had enjoyed himself. He was shocked when he looked up at the clock on his wall and saw that three and a half hours had passed. “Thank you, Merlin. I never would have been able to figure this all out by myself, and you really helped. Thank you.”

 

“No worries, mate.” Merlin said, giving him a smile. Arthur noticed that when he did, it lit up his entire face, his blue eyes bright as their corners crinkled. “It was fun.”

 

“Yeah, actually it was.”  

 

“So, see you in three days then?”

 

“Three days. Thanks, Merlin.”

 

“No worries mate,” Merlin said again as he made his way to the door. “Night, Arthur.”

 

“Night Merlin,” Arthur responded. And then Merlin was gone.

 

***

 

“Oh dear god, you brought another one?” Arthur asked three nights later, as he stared at yet another opaque blob that was sitting in a plastic container on his kitchen counter.

 

Merlin muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like _and here’s me without any sherry this time_ , before he straightened from where he had been unpacking the bag from the local grocery store and turned to face Arthur.

 

“No Arthur, I did not _bring another one_. That one was suet. This is goose fat.” He said.

 

“ _Goose fat?_ ” Arthur most certainly did not shriek. “Why on earth do we need goose fat? Couldn’t we just use butter, or, I don’t know, canola oil or something instead?”

 

“Because, Arthur, this goose fat is what’s going to really make these potatoes sing.” Merlin sighed. “And you could be just a bit thankful, you ungrateful prat. It’s not easy to find, you know, and I had to make an extra stop at the butcher just to get it.”

 

“Sorry,” Arthur said. And he was. Merlin was right. The bloke really was going out of his way for him, and Arthur had been nothing but rude about it, even if the blorp on his counter looked like something that had been sneezed up by a troll. “And you’re right. You really are going out of your way for me doing all of this. And you shouldn’t be doing all of the shopping. Why don’t you just make me a list so I know what to get for the next time, that way you don’t have to stop on your way home from work? Or pay for it all. Shite!” Arthur cursed, because he had just realised that so far Merlin had paid for all of the ingredients.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Merlin was searching Arthur’s kitchen racks, looking for a skillet. “You can cover all the rest. Now go wash your hands, then hand me the goose fat so we can get it melted.”

 

“ _I have to touch it?_ ” Arthur would later admit that maybe, just maybe, he did shriek that time. But also, from the look that Merlin gave him, that he was probably going to have to stock up on a lot more sherry if they were going to make it through the month.

 

Fortunately, once they got through Arthur’s reluctance to deal with the blorp, Merlin yet again proved to be a very patient and easy going teacher. He showed Arthur how to wash and the cut all of the potatoes, “ _Curl your fingertips under Arthur, and use your knuckles to guide you. That way you won’t have to worry about cutting your fingers, yeah._ ” And, “ _You don’t want to push when you’re cutting Arthur, you want to slice. Let the knife do all of the work_.” After three tries, when Arthur still couldn’t mimic the exact motion Merlin was trying to teach him, Merlin had stepped behind him, wrapped his fingers around Arthur’s wrist, and guided his hand through the motion he had been trying to demonstrate. Merlin’s fingers were long and thin, but surprisingly strong, as well as surprisingly gentle as he showed Arthur how to slice through the potatoes. As he did, something dark and unfamiliar curled through Arthur’s gut. But before he could recognize it, before he could give it name, Merlin had stepped away, smiling at him with a, “There you go. That’s it. Well done, Arthur.” And the moment had passed.

 

The potatoes did not take nearly as long to cook as the pudding. But during the hour while they roasted, after an admonishment of, _You do not just leave food cooking in the kitchen Arthur, while you go and do something else. Remember the turkey?_ they sat and actually chatted for a bit over a cup of tea.

 

It was then that Arthur learned that Merlin was a year younger than him, had been born and raised in some small village in Wales that Arthur had never heard of called Ealdor, and that he worked as a physio through a booking agency at various clinics and locations throughout London. He had ever since he had graduated uni, and he loved his job. He got to meet and chat with all different sorts of people while he worked, from professional dancers and athletes to seniors at a local assisted living facility, to those who needed his help after an accident or injury at the rehabilitation center he was a consultant for. Every day was different, and while oftentimes his patients cursed at him during their sessions, they were always grateful in the end when his efforts helped them regain their mobility and go back to doing the things they loved. He even told Arthur a bit about his favourite patient, a woman in her eighties by the name of Ellie, who had taken a bad fall and broken her shoulder.

 

“She was a showgirl in both Vegas and Monte Carlo, and the stories she has Arthur, the stories!” Merlin laughed. It was a good laugh, Arthur decided as he listened to Merlin. Not too loud, but deep, coming from his entire body. It filled up the kitchen, and combined with the rich smell of roasting potatoes coming from the oven, it again made something dark and unfamiliar rush through Arthur’s insides.

 

Arthur didn’t want to think about any of that right then, so instead he focused on Merlin and said, “She sounds like quite the character.”

 

“She is, she is.” Merlin was still laughing. “Every time I come in for her session, she looks at me and says, _Boyo, you may be a little bit of lovely, and I can’t remember the last time I had hands as young as yours all over my body, but I would give my left tit right now for a steak and a shot of whiskey instead of this next hour!_ ”

 

“What?” Arthur asked, glad he had put down his tea cup, otherwise he was sure he would have spit out all of its contents, and probably all over Merlin’s face. “You’re lying.”

 

“Nope,” Merlin laughed again, with a shake of his head.

 

“And what did you say?” Arthur had to know.

 

“I always say, _Well, Miss Ellie, let’s just both be thankful that it’s not your tits I’m interested in. Now sit up straight and let me get a look at your shoulder._ ”

 

“And that’s the end of that?” Arthur asked.

 

“Oh no, not at all.” Merlin grinned. “The first time I said it to her, she just looked at me, smiled and said _Lad, I’ll have you know, back in my day, I had some mighty fine tits. Fine enough that even your gay arse would have wanted to cop a feel_.” Merlin was still smiling, but there was a careful cast to his gaze as he stared at Arthur. And Arthur knew that he was being studied, scrutinized while Merlin waited for his response.

 

Arthur picked up his tea, took a slow swallow, and lowered his cup before he asked, “And did she?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Merlin answered, and the look in his eyes changed from careful to one of relief, before he went on. “I’ve seen the pictures. Those were indeed some mighty fine tits.”

 

Arthur laughed and Merlin smiled. Arthur took another sip of his tea, and was about to ask _So you’re gay then?_ But the timer for the oven went off, indicating the potatoes were done, and the opportunity was lost.

 

***

 

Later that night, after a delicious meal of just roasted potatoes (and Merlin had been right, the lump of blorp really had added a delicious flavour to the dish; rich and smooth, a lovely crunch on the outside that melted into a warm, creamy inside, filling and satisfying, that reminded Arthur of the nip of autumn air in his nose and the crunch of falling leaves under his feet), Arthur lay in his bed, and thought about the past evening. He thought of a hand on his wrist, warm and gentle as it guided him. A laugh that was deep and sincere, that had sounded like a song. And the realisation that Merlin was gay.

 

As he lay there, unable to sleep, the feeling from before returned. It lay heavy in his stomach again, except this time it wasn’t as dark or unfamiliar as he would have liked.

 

But it was, he could admit in the darkness of his bedroom, absolutely terrifying.

 

***

 

Early next week, Arthur was in a state. The morning had started off bad, and it had just gotten worse from there. A potential client had rejected a proposal Arthur had worked on for over a month, and his father had spent an hour yelling at him in his office. Arthur had stood there and listened, his teeth gritted the entire time while his father ranted and raved. _What did you expect?_ he had wanted to shout back. _I told you that Vellisarios wanted a more progressive approach, but you rejected every single one of my ideas whenever I tried to explain to you why it would work._ Then the office servers had crashed and Arthur had to spend his afternoon trying to reconstruct a report his father had demanded by the end of the day. And then, and then, because it was just that fucked up of a day, after he had delivered the damned report to his father’s PA Catriona, Uther had called him back into his office and told him that he had reviewed the numbers from accounting regarding his son’s team, and there were quite a few redundancies. Arthur had until the end of the month to terminate three of their contracts, right before the Christmas holidays. Arthur had tried to explain, tried to argue how every member of his team had their own unique skills and worked harder than anyone else in the company, but Uther was hearing none of it.  To top it all off, after he had finally left work two hours later, it had been raining, Arthur didn’t have an umbrella and there were no taxis to be found anywhere.

 

 Arthur was just done after that.

 

So, it was probably not so shocking that when Merlin knocked for their scheduled cooking lesson, Arthur wrenched the door open with a snarled “ _What?_ ”

 

Merlin took a step back as if he had been slapped, lifted his hands placatingly, and said “Okay, what bug crawled up your arse and died?”

 

Arthur glanced at Merlin, saw him standing there in a pair of faded and torn jeans and grey Henley, looking at if Arthur had just kicked his stupid cotton ball of a dog across the room, ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

 

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just been a shite day,” he admitted, stepping aside to allow Merlin to walk past as Arthur wrenched off his tie, tossed it to the floor, and then, imagining it was his father’s face, stomped on it for good measure.

 

“Yeah, I’m kind of getting that,” Merlin said, scrutinizing Arthur slowly. “Are you sure you’re up for this tonight?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I am. I’ve actually been looking forward to this all day.” In spite of everything, Arthur was surprised to find that it was the truth. Merlin was doing him a solid, but even more importantly, he was just so easy to be with. And after the day he’d had, Arthur needed easy right now. “Can you just give me ten minutes? Let me take a shower and wash this fucking day off? Make yourself at home, I’ll be right back.”

 

“Yeah, no worries,” Arthur heard Merlin call to his back as he stomped off to his washroom.

 

Fifteen minutes later, after Arthur had showered and changed into his most comfortable pair of jeans and an old uni sweatshirt, he still wasn’t feeling any better, and he was ready to call the whole night off, instead of submitting Merlin to what he knew could be quite a temper.

 

But Merlin was sitting quietly in his kitchen, carefully sipping from a cup of tea. He had made one for Arthur as well, which he slid over to him as soon as he saw Arthur approach. Arthur took a grateful sip; it was sweeter and had more milk than he usually preferred, yet somehow it was absolutely what he needed at that moment. Arthur took another sip, sighed and then glanced at all of the ingredients spread out upon his counter and jerked back.

 

“I thought we were making the brussel sprouts today,” he said, as he eyed flour, yeast, butter, salt, milk and eggs.

 

“Change of plans,” Merlin said as he rose from his seat, and reached for a measuring cup Arthur was sure he did not own. “We’re going to make the buns instead.”

 

“But I already bought everything for the sprouts,” Arthur countered.

 

“No worries mate. They’ll keep until next time. And I had all of the ingredients already. I just popped back in my flat to get them.” Merlin was rolling up his sleeves as he spoke, reaching for the milk. “And the buns, they’re super easy to make. Hard to mess up. And trust me, after a shite day, you’re going to absolutely _love_ making them.”

 

“I don’t know Merlin,” Arthur grumbled, feeling the tightness seeping back into his neck and shoulders. “It’s been a really shite day.”

 

Merlin glanced up from the ingredients, and then gave Arthur one of his sly, foxlike smiles. “Trust me.”

 

And Arthur did.

 

***

 

“So the thing about baking Arthur, is that it’s both a science and an art,” Merlin was saying as Arthur measured and sifted and whisked. “And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that smells as brilliant as freshly baking bread.”

 

“Yeah, all right.” But Arthur was still in a mood, and even he could tell his words lacked any sincerity. If Merlin noticed his tone, he made no comment, because he simply went on as if Arthur hadn’t spoken, in that same calm and irritatingly cheerful voice.

 

“But you want to know what the best thing about baking bread is Arthur?” he wheedled.

 

“What?” Arthur snapped. A bit of flour had just risen up from the bowl and gotten on his shirt.

 

“It’s bloody messy.” Merlin said, moving aside the measuring cup and the whisk. “Now stick your hands in there, get them good and dirty, and _fucking have at it._ ” And with that, Merlin wrapped his hands around Arthur’s, dipped then into the muck of flour, milk, melted butter and eggs, and showed him how to knead dough.

 

Thirty minutes later, after the dough had been mixed, wrapped and put into the refrigerator to rise, the dishes and measuring cups all cleaned, Arthur was back at his counter, which was now covered in a thin layer of flour, and was pounding the absolute shite out of the dough. He muttered and cursed as he went.

 

“That fucking arsehole. Arsehole. I fucking told him, I told him that we weren’t going to get the Vellesarios account if we kept presenting them with the same, tired ideas. But did he listen to me? No. No he didn’t. He just kept saying how _Pendragons is an old, established firm Arthur, and our clients come to use because they value our respect for traditions._ Traditions, my arse. You just can’t admit you’re wrong, can you, you fucker. The world is changing, old man, and you just can’t fucking stand it when you don’t get your way. And why the fuck did you need that report today! I had until the end of the week. But oh no, you needed it today, because _I obviously can’t trust you to handle the important deals, but I would imagine a few numbers aren’t beyond even your limited skills._ Fuck you, you fucker. I worked on that bloody report for weeks. Then, and then, you want me to fire three people, right before Christmas, just so you can show your fat, self-absorbed share-holders, who are just as stuck in the past as you, that you cut costs this quarter, but nevermind that there are now going to be three people, three of _my_ friends, who will now be out of work right before the holidays, and I’m the one that’s going to have to do it, you goddamned bloody coward!” Arthur was panting by the time he had finished with a last slam of his palms into the dough. He ran his fingers through his hair once, and rested his hands on the counter, while he leaned over and took harsh, gasping breaths.

 

Merlin was silent and wide eyed from where he was watching Arthur from the other side of the kitchen island. He hadn’t said a word during the entirety of Arthur’s tirade, just stood there quietly, as Arthur pounded and punched and plowed through the dough. Arthur had been grateful.

 

“Um…” Merlin eventually said. “Feeling any better then?”

 

Arthur wiped a flour covered hand over his forehead, where he had built up a good sweat during his tantrum, glanced at Merlin and took a deep breath. He took a moment to think about his answer, and was surprised to find that yes, yes he was feeling better. Quite a bit, actually.

 

But then he looked back down to the counter, at the mound that was supposed to be a soft and fluffy round ball, and saw only an airless and flat lump, that if he squinted very hard, could maybe, just maybe, be considered a hubcap instead. Or a brick.

 

“Oh no,” he moaned, taking in the results of all of Merlin’s teaching and patience while Arthur had done nothing more than ranted and raved at his father. The lump just lay there, looking as forlorn as Arthur suddenly felt. “I fucking ruined it. I’m so sorry Merlin.”

 

But Merlin was smiling as he walked over to Arthur’s side, where he poked at the flattened dough with the tip of his finger. “I told you baking was messy. And that dough, it deserved it, waving all of its eggs in your face like a shameless tart.” Merlin gave the lump another poke, and Arthur could have sworn he heard a _pbbbbt_ sound. “You know, you could always start a new Christmas tradition of your own. It doesn’t have to be buns. It could be Christmas tacos instead.”

 

“I am not making Vivian tacos for Christmas!” Arthur retorted, horrified.

 

“Or you know, maybe something completely different. Christmas fried chicken,” Merlin went on, undeterred. “I hear it’s all the rage in Japan. KFC makes a bloody mint during this time of the year there, you know.”

 

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur growled, looking around for a tea towel. “There is no way in hell anyone, anywhere in the world, eats fried chicken for Christmas.” But Merlin had already stepped away, and was reaching for his mobile, where he started to type something while Arthur wiped off his hands. “I mean, really Merlin, that’s just-“

 

Arthur was cut off when Merlin shoved his phone into Arthur’s face, where on the screen there was a Google search, that proved that yes, yes indeed, fried chicken from KFC was actually a traditional Christmas meal in Japan. Arthur blinked, looked back at the screen and then blinked again.

 

“Huh,” he said. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

 

“Told you,” Merlin chirped.

 

And for the first time since the start of this horrible day, Arthur laughed.

 

***

 

They spent the next few days texting each other about different holiday meals from around the world that they thought were interesting. Merlin texted him a link to a pork dish called _pernil_ that they served in Puerto Rico which Arthur thought sounded quite tasty, and Arthur, who had always loved Italy and Italian food admitted that he wanted to try the _Feast of the Seven Fishes_. Merlin sent him pictures of something called _tangyuan_ , a rice ball soup which was apparently part of the New Year’s celebrations in China, and Arthur sent him back images of Venezuelan _hallacas._ They both agreed _latkes_ looked delicious, even if those were for Chanukah instead of Christmas, and were curious, but a little cautious, about German _stollen_. Arthur found himself wanting to try it all.  He may not have wanted to touch some of the things Merlin had brought to his kitchen, but Arthur had always been an adventurous eater, and he loved the idea of trying new things.

 

As the next two days progressed, Arthur found himself eagerly awaiting each new text from Merlin, surreptitiously checking his phone every time it vibrated in his pocket. It earned him glares from his father during their weekly board meeting, and a curious eyebrow from George, which turned into a shocked gasp when on Wednesday, Arthur left the office five minutes before 5:00 pm, an hour and a half earlier than he usually did.

 

“Have a good evening George,” he called out as he left, waving a careless hand over his shoulder, as his PA stood stock still, for once, since Arthur had first met him, absolutely speechless.

 

***

 

 

“So what is it that you actually do?” Merlin asked him that night, as they once again were stood in Arthur’s kitchen, slicing and dicing as they prepared the next item on Arthur’s list. They were making the brussel sprouts this time, since Arthur was in a much better mood and the ingredients had been waiting in his refrigerator. Merlin was being his usual helpful self, offering Arthur advice and tips ( _If you smash the garlic with the side of your blade, Arthur, the skin comes right off, and then you can just pull it off and start slicing._ ), but he was letting Arthur, whose cooking skills had improved quite rapidly under Merlin’s tutelage, do most of the work.

 

“I’m the VP of new accounts acquisitions and development at _Pendragon Industries_ ,” Arthur told him, being sure to curl his fingers under as he sliced through the garlic.

 

“And that means what, exactly?” Merlin went on, watching Arthur’s hands carefully as he worked.

 

“It means exactly what it sounds like, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur said, glancing up at him.

 

“Eyes on what you’re doing Arthur. You have to pay attention when you’re cooking, _especially_ when you’re cutting anything.”

 

“Right.” Arthur went back to watching his hands, while Merlin stood at his side.

 

“So?” Merlin ventured after a few more seconds.

 

“So, that means I’m responsible for acquiring new clients for my father’s company. I analyze what the client wants and what they’re willing to spend, comparing their goals to what risks they’re willing to take. Then I design a campaign and a budget, and create and deliver a presentation that hopefully convinces them to sign on with _Pendragon Industries_ instead of one of our competitors.” Two cloves of garlic done, and three more to go.

 

“Huh.” Merlin said after a moment. “So you’re a businessman then.”

 

“Yes _Mer_ lin,” Arthur slammed the side of his blade into the next clove of garlic. Merlin had been right, it made the skin pop right off. “I’m a businessman.”

 

“And do you like your job?” Merlin asked, as he pulled another clove of garlic off from the bunch and laid it on the top corner of the cutting board.

 

“I’m very good at it,” Arthur said, slicing through the pale white clove. “In spite of what happened on Monday, I’m usually better at convincing our prospects to sign on with us.”

 

“Yes, you’ve said. But that’s not what I asked,” Merlin persisted. “I asked if you liked what you do.”

 

Arthur found his hands slowing, until they eventually stopped and he was staring down as the neat row of slices on his cutting board.

 

“I guess so?” He heard the question in his own voice and swallowed at the sound. “I mean, I am very good at what I do. And I do enjoy a challenge.” Arthur thought of his corner office, with its sleek furniture and modern design and big windows that overlooked the Thames. It was elegant, in its grey and blue tones, and spoke of power and prestige, designed to instill a sense of respect and awe in any visitors, from employees to clients. It was sleek and modern and cold, Arthur had always thought, so very fucking cold.

 

“Huh,” Merlin said again, nudging the clove of garlic into Arthur’s line of sight. “Is it what you always wanted to do then?”

 

“No, actually.” Arthur said, reaching for the clove, slamming it with the side of his blade, before he once more started slicing.

 

“No?”

 

“No,” Arthur said again, feeling something heavy and thick at the back of his throat. “I actually…I actually wanted to be an art historian,” he finally admitted. “I used to love all of the Renaissance artists. Da Vinci and Michelangelo, and all of their lot. I still do, actually.” Arthur suddenly had a vivid flashback, to a summer in is teens, and travelling throughout Europe with his sister. He remembered Morgana standing by his side, laughing in all of her bright summer dresses, vibrant blues and vivid purples, delicate clips in her hair as she took him to all of the major museums in every city they visited. Arthur had been only fifteen, but since Morgana was eighteen, his father had let the two of them travel together, claiming it would be a good experience for them both. His sister had been so happy then, happier than he had ever seen her, laughing easy and free as they took the train from city to city and country to country, her arm draped through his as they visited every single tourist attraction they could. Then, finally, there had been Paris and the Louvre. And Morgana, usually so talkative, had just stood quietly behind Arthur and let him look and look at all of the glorious artwork, his breath stolen, his eyes wide, surrounded, enraptured by the glory of it all. He had spent over an hour staring at the Mona Lisa, just staring, unable to believe that he was seeing it with his own eyes, while Morgana watched him, not saying a word.

 

And then, when Arthur himself was eighteen, there had been Italy. Morgana had come out to his father by then, so she hadn’t been there with him. And he had missed her. But Italy had been so beautiful, and the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel so wondrous that Arthur had been shocked and silenced by the grace, the sheer genius of it all. Italy was vibrant and bright, warm in a way England never was. Arthur had spent hours and hours and days and days just exploring to his heart’s content, missing his sister but loving the freedom to explore on his own. And then, and then there had been Lance with his kind eyes and playful smiles and -

 

Arthur jerked back suddenly, stopping the memory before it could venture any farther.

 

“So why didn’t you?” Merlin was asking him, and he was eyeing Arthur closely, kindly, in a way that  Arthur hadn’t experienced in far too long.

 

“My father,” Arthur said, looking down at the clove of garlic that had somehow become mashed instead of sliced. “He said there was no money in it, and that it would be a waste of time. And he was right.” Arthur didn’t mention how Uther had also told him that he would never pay for Arthur’s course if he decided to major in anything except for business, and that as Uther’s son, _his only son_ , it was his duty to follow in his father’s footsteps and continue the Pendragon line. “And he was right. There isn’t any money in it, and, well, here I am. It was the right choice. And I’m good at what I do.” But Arthur could hear the lie in his voice. And he was sure that Merlin could too.

 

He continued in silence for a few minutes more, slicing, slicing, slicing, until he felt a gentle tap on the top of his wrist, and looked up to see Merlin, staring at him with eyes that were still kind, and a tissue in his hand.

 

“What?” Arthur asked, glancing at the tissue and then back at Merlin’s face.

 

“For your eyes Arthur,” he said softly, holding out the serviette. It was only then that Arthur realised his cheeks were wet, and that he had been sniffling quietly while he worked. “Sometimes onions, and garlic, can make your eyes tear up. Be careful though. You don’t want to get any of the oil in your eyes.” Then he handed Arthur the tissue, gently pushed him aside, and picked up the slicing where Arthur had left off.

 

As Arthur wiped his eyes and blew his nose, and Merlin continued to calmly slice the garlic, if neither of them said anything about Merlin’s obvious lie, then that was more than okay.

 

***

 

They spent the few days until Arthur’s next cooking lesson texting after that. Initially, Arthur had been worried that Merlin would mention the scene in the kitchen, and he had been hesitant to look at the first message when he heard his mobile go off. But it had merely been Merlin reminding him of what ingredients he needed to pick up, and Arthur relaxed after that.

 

Their conversations proceeded to veer off in completely random directions from that point on. Arthur found himself complaining to Merlin via text whenever he was in yet another long boring meeting, and Merlin would respond with the trials and tribulations of his own work day in response.

 

 _She’s threatening me with her tits again, Arthur!_ was the message Arthur had received Friday morning, during the weekly board meeting. Reading the text, Arthur had been forced to muffle the snort that wanted to escape by turning it into a cough, and then he avoided Uther’s glare while he discreetly typed out his response.

 

_She’s an octogenarian Merlin. I’m sure even you can outrun her._

 

 _OMG! Only you would take the time to type out octogenarian, you posh prat!_ came back less than 40 seconds later.

 

 _There is nothing wrong with doing things properly,_ Arthur answered.

 

 _Says the man who exploded his microwave because he couldn’t wait 30 mins._ Merlin had included a picture of a burning building with his latest response, and Arthur found that this time he couldn’t hide his laugh as it burst out from him.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologized to his father and the rest of the board members, who were all glaring at him at this point. “George just emailed me the latest numbers on the Tremmel project and they’ve exceeded even our best estimations.”

 

“Well then, if that is indeed the case, I’m sure you would be more than happy to enlighten us, Arthur,” his father said, with an arch to his eyebrow that said there would definitely be another lecture in Uther’s office after the meeting was over. But the numbers had been good, and Arthur had always known how to think on his feet, so once the meeting was done even his father was nodding his approval as they all left the conference room.

 

 _Now she’s asking me if I have any cute friends I can bring to our next session!_ was what Arthur read while he sat at his desk, taking five minutes to devour a sandwich while he prepared for a conference call with their offices in Germany.

 

 _I’m starting to doubt this Ellie even exists_ , Arthur texted back. _Pics or it didn’t happen._

It wasn’t until later that evening, as he and Vivian were sharing supper at another restaurant that had wonderful reviews and which Vivian had been dying to try, that Arthur received a response. Merlin had again sent him a photo, and when Arthur opened it, he saw a picture of Merlin, with his arm carefully draped over the shoulder of a much, much older woman. They were both grinning at the camera, Merlin with his usual warm and cheerful smile, and the woman, who had to be the infamous Ellie, with something that was definitely mischievous in her gaze. She was unlike any woman Arthur had ever seen before, much less one who was supposedly in her 80s. She was a tiny thing, wearing bright red lipstick and a pair of purple cat-eyed glasses with rhinestones on the corners. Her face was surrounded by a cloud of white hair, which was streaked with blue and yellow. She was garish and tacky, and yet, yet, as Arthur looked at her face, at both of their faces, which were happy and laughing, he could tell that she had definitely once been a knock-out, and that she (Arthur refused, absolutely refused to think about her tits or any other part of her body, thank-you-very-much) had probably been stunning enough to turn many a man’s eye, even a gay one.

 

Arthur was trying to think up a response to Merlin, when he heard a very discreet cough and looked up to find Vivian staring at him while their server carefully laid a cloth napkin across her lap.

 

“Something the matter, Arthur?” she asked, reaching for the glass of water their server had just poured for her.

 

“What? No, why?” Arthur responded, nodding at their waiter as he poured Arthur his own glass of sparkling water.

 

“It’s just that you had a strange look on your face, darling, and I was curious.”

 

Arthur wondered at her words, and at what she must have seen, because he was certain that he had been smiling up until a moment ago.

 

“Oh, no, it’s nothing,” he said, laying his mobile to the side. “Just a text from Kay at work with some good news.” Arthur wondered why he was lying to Vivian, when really, it was just a photo from Merlin. But he was meeting with Merlin after work to learn how to cook a meal for Vivian, and it was supposed to be a surprise. He didn’t want her, or anyone really, he was shocked to realise, to know about Merlin just yet.

 

“Hmmm,” Vivian hummed with a small smile, and then glanced to their server, who was patiently waiting to tell them the day’s specials. Arthur watched as Vivian took a sip from her goblet, listening intently to the meals on offer, and as he did, he found himself noticing that both her lips and her nails were coloured a pale pink.

 

As Arthur waited for Vivian to make her decision, he found himself glancing at his darkened mobile on the table and the image it held. As he thought of Merlin and the old woman who kept threatening to flash him, both of them looking into the camera with smiles on their faces, he couldn’t help but think that his sister would probably adore someone like Ellie. And Merlin as well.

 

And that he could never, ever, if he valued his sanity, allow any of them to meet.

 

***

 

They continued to text until Monday morning. Merlin’s last text had been a quickly dashed off _See you tonight for a good old fashioned stuffing!_ which had caused Arthur to cough out half of his just-sipped coffee, before he signed off for the rest of the day.

 

Arthur had stopped at the market on his way home, showered and changed, and was patiently waiting in his kitchen for Merlin to knock on his door at 7:00 pm like he usually did. But then it was 7:00, and then 7:10 and then 7:20, and there was still no sign of Merlin. Merlin had never been late before, and Arthur had just decided head over to Merlin’s flat, when he heard the lift doors opening and turned to see Merlin rushing out, looking flustered as he made his way past Arthur. His hair was mussed, as if he had been running his hands through it constantly, and his cheeks flushed, from the cold or because he had been rushing, Arthur couldn’t tell.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, as he swung his messenger bag around and began digging through it frantically for his keys. “Things were a bit crazed at work today, and then I got called in to do a last minute assessment on someone, and the trains were for shite tonight, and my mobile died on me so I couldn’t text you, and I’m sorry I’m late, Arthur.” Merlin’s dogs must have heard him, and at the sound of his voice, they began to make a ruckus on the other side of the door. “All right, all right you guys! Calm down! I’m coming, I’m coming! Sheesh!” Merlin yelled back at them as he fumbled with his keys, searching for the right one. If anything, his words seemed to excite the dogs even more, and their yowling only got louder. “Just give me 20 minutes, yeah? Let me walk the damned beasts – _Shut up you bastards, I’m coming!_ – and I’ll be right over.”

 

And Arthur, who had initially been a bit annoyed at Merlin’s lateness, took another look at Merlin’s disheveled and harried appearance, and felt something soft and warm start to bloom in his stomach, like the sound of his sister’s laugher or the feel of sunshine on his face in Italy instead.

 

“It’s alright, Merlin. Don’t worry about it,” he said, bending down to pick up the scarf Merlin had dropped on the floor in his desperate search for his keys. “We all have shite days.”

 

“Yeah, I know. But I know how important this is for you, Arthur, and I really didn’t mean to be late.” Merlin finally located his keys, holding them up with a victorious “ _Aha!_ ” which was followed by a “ _Oh shut it guys! I’m right here!_ ”

 

“Look,” Arthur said, watching as Merlin slid the key into his lock. “You’ve had a day. Why don’t you go and take a shower, catch your breath. I can walk the dogs for you, and when you’re done, you can come round by mine whenever you’re ready and we can take it from there, yeah?”

 

Merlin stopped then, and with an eyebrow whose arch could rival his father’s, turned to look at Arthur.

 

“Have you ever even walked a dog before Arthur?”

 

There was a disbelieving tone in his voice that ruffled Arthur’s feathers. Arthur straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin before he responded with “Well, no, but you’re able to do it. How hard could it be?”

 

Arthur should have known by now to never ask that question, because it was at that exact moment that Merlin opened his door, and two seconds later, Arthur found himself lying on his back on the hallway floor, covered by over 150 pounds of drooling werewolf and shedding cotton ball.

 

***

 

“I’m really sorry about that, Arthur, really I am.” Merlin was saying for what must have been the twentieth time. But as he still hadn’t stopped laughing since it had happened, Arthur had a hard time trusting his sincerity.

 

It was ten minutes later, and they were outside their building walking Merlin’s dogs. After the _Incident_ in the hallway, and yes, Arthur was forever going to use the capital I whenever he referred to it, even if he was going to make sure they never spoke of it again, especially not to Morgana, Merlin had helped Arthur off of the floor. He then offered him a tea towel to wipe his face, while the dogs circled and danced around them, as if their Christmas had just come early. They had then decided that they could both use a breather, and Arthur had (magnanimously) agreed to join Merlin while he walked his monsters.

 

Except, once they had been petted and stroked and assured that all was right in the world by Merlin, they settled down and were now proving to be amazingly calm and well behaved beasts. According to Merlin, they just didn’t like to be left alone for too long. Arthur was still doubtful, and he eyed the two of them suspiciously as they slowly made their way down the pathway, but now that Merlin was home and they were being walked, it seemed as if they had decided that all was as it should be. He watched as the white one, Aithusa, stopped and sniffed at every lamppost and fire hydrant they passed, while both Merlin and Kilgarrah, the werewolf that had been responsible for knocking Arthur over, patiently waited until every item met with Aithusa’s approval and they could move on to the next one. Arthur was a bit surprised, because he had assumed that it would have been the other way around, that Kilgarrah would have been the one to decide their course, while Merlin and Aithusa followed his lead. But it seemed as if it were the little cotton ball who was the leader of their tiny pack, and that both Merlin and Kilgarrah were more than happy to let her have her way. She would sniff and snuffle at something, and then look back at the both of them, giving a happy little yip, before prancing on her way to the next tyre or corner, where the entire process started all over again.

 

“So, never had a dog of your own then?” Merlin asked, pulling Arthur from his contemplation of cotton balls and werewolves.

 

“No,” Arthur answered with a shake of his head. “My father wasn’t big on animals when I was growing up.”

 

“Really?” Merlin looked at him in shock.

 

“Said they were a waste of time and energy that could be better spent focusing on other things,” Arthur told him.

 

“Huh.” There was a tone to Merlin’s voice that Arthur didn’t know what to make of, and he found himself wanting to change the subject.

 

“What about you? Did you always have animals?” he asked instead.

 

“Oh yeah,” Merlin said, smiling at his two dogs as they made their way to the next lamppost. “Mum was always big on having animals around. In fact, I don’t remember ever not having at least two dogs and two cats when I was growing up, if not more.”

 

“At the same time?”

 

“Oh yeah.” Merlin was laughing now, easy and free and happy in the cool night air. “Big animal lover, my mum. Passed that on to me, I guess. I love animals. Thought about being a veterinary surgeon for a bit there, but then I realised I would have to put them to sleep sometimes, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it, so I decided on physical therapy instead.” Arthur tried to imagine Merlin as a vet, and he thought it would have suited Merlin, with his kind nature and generous smiles. He would have been good at it, Arthur knew.

 

“Yeah, but just think,” he said instead. “If you had been, then you would have been spared a life where octogenarians threaten you with their tits.”

 

“Oh my god!” Merlin gasped in mock outrage. “ _That woman!_ Do you know she actually had the nerve to slap my arse today!”

 

“What?” Arthur sputtered. “No, she did not!”

 

“Oh yes she did.” Merlin went on. “We were at the end of our session, and I was bending over to pick up one of the weights I’d had her use, when she just reached out and went _slap_.”

 

Arthur was laughing so hard his stomach hurt. “What did you do?” he wanted to know.

 

“Well, I straightened right up, turned around, looked at her and said, _Well, Miss Ellie, that was a very nice slap. Thank you very much. When you can do that with your other arm, I will personally take you out for a steak supper and a bottle of whiskey._ ”

 

 

“I will treat the both of you to the best steak supper and bottle of whiskey when that time comes Merlin,” Arthur heard himself saying as they laughed and smiled. It was surprisingly light and easy, and it remained that way even after their laughter faded and the two of them continued to walk quietly down the pathway.

 

At least it was until Kilgarrah decided he’d had enough walking, and it was time for him to do what he was meant to, and he squatted and produced the biggest and foulest pile of shite Arthur had ever seen in his life.

 

They never did get around to that evening’s scheduled cooking lesson. Merlin had almost fallen over, he had been laughing so hard at Arthur’s reaction, and Arthur swore he was put off from eating anything else ever in his life from the smell alone, to which Merlin replied that he could always bring Vivian a bucket of fried chicken for Christmas.

 

But that night, as he lay in his bed, Arthur found that he didn’t so much mind. And that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a lovely evening.

 

***

 

A week and a half later, Merlin was back in Arthur’s apartment, which Arthur had to admit now smelled absolutely heavenly. There had been two other lessons in the interim, where Merlin had taught Arthur how to prepare the delayed stuffing, and the mince pies. They had gone quite well, even if Arthur had initially overworked the dough for the pies and Merlin yet again reminded him that fried chicken for Christmas was indeed a viable option. But overall, Arthur thought he was progressing quite well in the development of his culinary skills.

 

Yet still, with all of that, Arthur had to admit that the scents wafting from the pot on his stove as Merlin shared with him his mother’s secret recipe for mulled cider were some of the best that Arthur had ever smelled. The air was rich with the aromas of cinnamon and clove, apple and ginger, brown sugar and rum, and Arthur wanted to wrap the smells around him like a blanket and never, ever leave his kitchen.

 

But the best part, the absolute best part of it all, was that once the cider was quietly simmering on its burner, they could sample the wares for themselves.

 

One mug in, and Arthur was pleasantly warm. Two mugs in, and Arthur was beginning to think the cider was deceptively potent. By the third mug, when Merlin had broken into a warbling rendition of Last Christmas, which included jazz hands, Arthur had decided that mulled cider was _the best thing ever_.  And by the fourth, when Merlin, in a fit a drunken whimsy had decided to explore Arthur’s apartment and discovered his secret Doctor Who DVD collection, Arthur was too far gone to care that Merlin had discovered one of Arthur’s deepest, darkest secrets, one that even Morgana did not know about, and agreed with Merlin that now was the perfect time to watch a Doctor Who marathon, as long as it included a few more mugs of Merlin’s mum’s wonderful and delicious cider.

 

And pizza. Lots and lots of pizza.

 

The evening almost came to ruin when Merlin admitted that his favourite Doctor was the eleventh, while Arthur countered that no one could possibly be a better Doctor than David Tennant, with his pale skin and dark hair. Merlin had squinted at him, confused for an instant, but then the doorbell had rung with their pizza delivery, and Arthur’s comment was forgotten.

 

A few hours, mugs of cider and two boxes of pizza later, Arthur jerked awake to find himself ensconced on his couch, Merlin a heavy and solid weight next to him, his head resting heavily on Arthur’s shoulder, snoring. Arthur glanced around to get his bearings, before he turned back to Merlin, and just let himself look, _really_ look at him, for the first time.

 

Merlin was always moving, always talking, waving his hands around as he spoke, and it truly was a rare thing to see him being so still. But asleep, he was all lean lines and sharp angles, long limbed and broad shouldered. He had lovely, lovely wavy black hair that curled around ears which were big, it was true, but also strangely delicate looking. Arthur had caught himself staring at them on occasion, when Merlin  moved in just such a way that he was caught behind by the light, and Arthur found himself thinking of a butterfly’s wings. He was pale, so pale, with eyelashes so long they cast shadows upon his cheeks, framing eyes that Arthur now knew were the darkest blue he had ever seen on anyone. He had a strong jawline that sharply contrasted with the kind of cheekbones that even Morgana could only dream about, which highlighted a pair of pillowy soft looking lips that were a bit chapped now from the cold. There was a bit of scruff that ran from the lower half of his face down the graceful curve of his neck that Arthur followed with his eyes until they settled upon the bump of his Adam’s apple. Arthur wondered how it would feel, how Merlin would react if he placed a small kiss there, while his hand trailed down to the small protuberance on the back of Merlin’s neck that he didn’t know the name for, but was sure that Merlin could tell him if he asked.

 

It was as Arthur was leaning in, to taste, to see for himself how Merlin’s skin would feel beneath his lips, that he caught himself and jerked back as if he had been burned, stumbling from the couch and falling to his arse to the floor. He looked back up at Merlin, panicked, terrified that Merlin had seen, would know what Arthur had almost done. But Merlin only flopped over into the spot where Arthur had been sitting, and snuffled a bit before he settled down.

 

“Oh god no,” Arthur moaned, fisting his hands in his hair and pulling. “ _Nonononononono._ ” This couldn’t be happening to him. Not now…not again. Not after he had worked so hard and come so far. He wouldn’t, couldn’t let it. He had Vivian now, and he loved her, _he did_. And his father…Well, his father was his father, the only father Arthur had, and Arthur would not disappoint him.

 

Arthur lowered his hands from his hair, noticing they were trembling as he did. Arthur forced himself to remember that he was a _Pendragon_ , goddammit, and all the entailed, before he slowly rose to his feet, got a blanket from his cupboard to cover Merlin, left a glass of water and a packet of paracetamol on his coffee table, and fled to his room.

 

That night, after much tossing and turning, when Arthur finally fell asleep, he dreamed of Italy. Of a summer filled with colours and warmth, artwork and delicious foods, sunshine on his skin and Lance’s arms around him.

 

When he woke, and finally found the courage to leave his bedroom, Merlin was already gone.

 

***

 

At first, Arthur had been worried that things would be different after that night. But when Merlin texted him a few hours later, apologising for his drunken warbling and telling him that his mum had always told him that he couldn’t hold his liquor, and made no further mention of anything else, the knot of tension eased from Arthur’s chest, and things quickly went back to normal.

 

The next week and a half passed by in a bit of a blur. Arthur and his team had to prepare all of their usual end of year reports, and they were a bit frantic with trying to make their deadlines. Arthur went on three dates with Vivian, two of which ended with him making sure to spend the night in her flat. Yet all the while, he and Merlin continued to text with their usual back and forth banter, Merlin telling Arthur stories about Ellie, and persisting in trying to persuade him that yes, fried chicken was still a viable option for Christmas dinner, while Arthur countered that no, it was not, and that Merlin should ask Ellie for her opinion on the matter if it was so important to him. Apparently, Ellie had laughed in Merlin’s face, and then proceeded to graduate from slapping Merlin’s arse to pinching it. Arthur had snickered for a good fifteen minutes after that text.

 

The days flew by, until it was finally Friday evening and Arthur was done with work for the week. Arthur had a date with Vivian that night, and he was running a bit behind as he rushed out of his apartment, straightening his coat as he pushed the button for the lift. He stood there, tapping his foot and cursing to himself, ready to rush inside as soon as the lift arrived.

 

Except, once the doors eventually opened, Merlin was already there. He didn’t notice Arthur as he made his way past, his head lowered and his shoulders stooped.

 

“Merlin,” Arthur said, concerned. He had never seen Merlin look like this, so lost and forlorn. “Merlin, what is it? Is everything all right?” It was then that Merlin seemed to notice Arthur for the first time, and looked up at him with eyes that were red-rimmed and filled with tears. Arthur was suddenly afraid.

 

“Oh, hi Arthur. Excuse me,” Merlin mumbled, moving to walk past.

 

“Merlin, what’s the matter? What’s happened?” Arthur asked again, reaching out and grabbing Merlin by the sleeve of his pea coat.

 

“It’s Ellie,” Merlin said in a small, weak voice, lifting a hand to wipe at his cheeks. “I went to see her today, for our daily session, and I found out that she had a stroke last night and she didn’t…she didn’t…” It was then that Merlin’s voice trailed off.

 

“Oh no, Merlin.” Before he could even think about it, Arthur was reaching out and taking Merlin into his arms. “I am so so sorry. So very sorry,” he whispered into Merlin’s hair, while Merlin started to cry quietly against his shoulder.

 

“It happens. I’ve lost patients before. But she – she…”

 

“She was one of the special ones,” Arthur finished for him softly.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Oh Merlin, I am so, so sorry.” Arthur said again, tightening his embrace. Arthur felt Merlin trembling in his arms, and heard the way his breathing quivered and shook. It was then that Arthur made a decision.

 

“Right,” he said, taking Merlin’s shoulders in his hands before he stepped back and then turned him around. “This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to go to your flat, where you’re going to take a shower, and I’m going to walk those monsters you call dogs. And when I get back, we’re going to order in curry, and watch all of the Eleventh Doctor episodes you can stand.”

 

“No really Arthur, that’s not necessary. I’ll be fine,” Merlin protested as Arthur shoved and guided him down the hallway to his flat, where the dogs, having heard Merlin, were already starting to make their usual ruckus.

 

“Keys Merlin, now.” Arthur’s tone brooked no argument as he held out his hand and waited for Merlin to pass over his keys. Merlin sniffed again, but handed them over. Arthur unlocked the door, but was smart enough to step aside before he could be overwhelmed by the hurricane that was Merlin’s dogs, and then stepped inside and sent a quick text to Vivian while he waited for Merlin to hand him the leashes. Some things were more important than any cocktail party, no matter who would be there.

 

A heartbroken Merlin was definitely one of them.

 

***

 

Two hours, some curry and a few pints later, Arthur was sat on Merlin’s couch, his arm around Merlin’s shoulders, Merlin’s head gently resting again his own. Aithusa and Kilgarrah, sensing Merlin’s mood, were quiet for once as they lay at their feet, as was Freya, a huge grey and white long-haired moggie Arthur hadn’t known about until that night, who was curled up in Merlin’s lap, purring like a motorboat.

 

Merlin had spent the past couple of hours alternating between picking at his food, crying, and telling Arthur all about his favourite moments with Ellie. Arthur had felt himself almost tearing up a few times. Merlin had spoken about her so often and so fondly that even though Arthur had never met her personally, he felt as if he knew her by proxy.

 

But Merlin was quiet now, and had been for the past fifteen minutes. Arthur assumed that he just needed a bit of calm, and some time to let things settle in his mind. So Arthur let him be and spent the time studying Merlin’s flat. The floor plan was identical to his, but that was the only similarity between the two spaces. His rooms were a series of masculine leather couches, chrome accents, and track lighting, with tasteful black and white photography of skylines and mountain ranges lining the walls. His sister was always trying to convince him that his space needed more colour and a bit of softness. Merlin’s, on the other hand, was a mix of cosy furniture, warm thrift shop lamps, and a variety of sketches, movie posters and paintings. He had curtains, actual curtains, instead of blinds hanging from the windows, and what looked like a few handmade tapestries draped around what Merlin must have considered the centerpiece of the flat, a set of bookshelves that lined the back wall. As Arthur squinted, he could make out some of the author names, which included Pratchett, Gaiman, Adams and King, as well as quite a few that Arthur didn’t recognise. Merlin had been so quiet and Arthur so lost in this new insight into Merlin’s life that he was somewhat surprised when, out of the blue, Merlin whispered, “Tell me about Vivian. What’s she like?”

 

“What?” Arthur asked, stunned by the sudden question.

 

“Vivian,” Merlin repeated. “What’s she like?”

 

“Why do you want to know about Vivian?”

 

“Because I’m tired of crying,” Merlin said. “And you’ve been going through all of this effort for her, but you never really talk about her. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

 

“Vivian, well, she’s a daughter of an old friend of my father’s.”

 

“How did you meet?”

 

“I knew her while I was growing up. But not well. She spent a lot of her time in Europe while I was in uni. And then a year ago, at my father’s annual Christmas party, we met again. We started talking, seemed to have quite a bit in common, and then I asked her out for a date, and we’ve been seeing each other ever since.”

 

“But what’s she like?” Merlin persisted, in that way that he often had.

 

“Well, let’s see. Her family’s quite old, so she doesn’t have to work. She spends most of her time doing a lot of charity work, which she quite enjoys. She likes the symphony, as do I, and since we did grow up in the same social circle, we know a lot of the same people. She can be quite funny and charming, and she loves to travel. We get along quite well, and share a lot of the same goals, and both of our fathers were very happy when we started seeing each other.” Arthur said, and then found he couldn’t really think of anything else to say after that.

 

“Is she pretty?” Merlin asked softly.

 

“Oh yes, she’s quite pretty. Blonde, with blue eyes and –“ And here Arthur paused, because he realised the next word he had been about to say was cold. She was blonde and blue eyed and cold looking, when Arthur, blond himself, had always preferred the warm mystery of darker hair and eyes.

 

“She sounds lovely.” Merlin said, and Arthur noticed that his fingers were curling gently around one of Freya’s cheeks, where he rubbed her whiskers in soft, short, even strokes.

 

“She is.” But even to his own ears, the words sounded forced, flat.

 

“That’s good then,” Merlin went on. “Because she’s a very lucky woman. You’re very kind, and I would hate to think of you going to all of this effort for someone horrid.”

 

“Yes, well, enough about Vivian,” Arthur interrupted. “How about you? How are you feeling? Better?”

 

“A bit, yes. Thank you, Arthur.” Merlin lifted his head from Arthur’s shoulder and straightened on the couch. It was then that he seemed to really see Arthur for the first time that evening, taking in his suit and tie. “Oh no,” he said, sounding horrified. “Did you have plans tonight Arthur? Why didn’t you say anything, you daft berk? You didn’t miss anything important, did you?”

 

“No Merlin, don’t worry about it,” Arthur said with a shake of his head. “Vivian will understand, I promise you.”

 

“ _You had a date?_ ”

 

“ _Mer_ lin, I said not to worry about it,” Arthur assured him. “Some things are more important than others. And an upset friend is one of those things, all right?”

 

“But-“

 

“All right, Merlin?” Arthur said, injecting his voice with the tone he had learned from his father, the one that said there would be no arguments and the decision was final. Merlin looked like he was about to tell Arthur and his tone to stuff it, but Arthur cut him off instead. “Right, so, we’ve watched five episodes of the Doctor. Do you want to keep going, or do you want to watch something else? I see you’ve got A New Hope. Do you want to give that a go?” Instead of waiting for a response, Arthur got up and reached for the DVD.

 

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, as the now famous words rolled up the screen, that Merlin spoke again. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around Arthur’s wrist, giving him a gentle squeeze before he let go and quietly said, “Thank you.” And that was it.

 

“You’re very welcome Merlin. Anytime, all right?” Arthur said, surprised to find that he meant it, more than anything else he’d ever had.

 

***

 

A few nights later, he and Merlin were both stood in Arthur’s kitchen, facing the kitchen island, where Merlin stared down at the items Arthur had purchased for that evening’s lesson. His eyes were wide, and he had been quiet for a few minutes, before he turned to Arthur and asked in a careful tone, “So, um, does Vivian have a healthy appetite?”

 

“No,” Arthur responded, confused by the question. “She eats about as much as anybody else.”

 

“Okay,” Merlin said slowly. “And this supper you’re planning, it’s just going to be you and her, yeah?”

 

“Yes, _Mer_ lin, I’ve told you that. It’s supposed to be a romantic meal with just the two of us.” Arthur turned to look at Merlin, who was still staring at the turkey in the roasting pan on his counter. “Why are you asking me all of these questions? I went and purchased everything on the list you sent me, exactly as you said. What’s the problem?”

 

“The problem is that you went out and bought a _twenty five pound turkey Arthur!_ And unless you want to spend at least five hours cooking it and plan to feed an entire footie team on Christmas, you’re going to be eating leftover turkey sandwiches for months!” Merlin waved an exasperated hand at the turkey on his counter, which, now that Arthur took another look at it, did seem rather large.

 

“Yes, but, well…” Arthur faltered. “In all the pictures I looked at online, they showed one that looked just like this.” He now understood why the butcher at the meat counter had looked at him strangely. And it hadn’t been easy lugging the damned thing home either. Twenty five pounds of turkey was still twenty five pounds of turkey, and (Arthur would never admit it out loud) his arm had ached a bit by the time he got back to his flat.

 

Merlin sighed. “That’s for Christmas adverts and cook-books, Arthur. Most people don’t cook a twenty five pound turkey for just a few people.”

 

“Well, how the hell was I supposed to know that? You told me to buy a turkey, and I bought a turkey. Why can’t we just cook this one instead tonight? How long could it possibly take, especially if we turn the heat up a bit?”

 

Merlin was leaning over the counter at this point, his hands in his hair, and Arthur swore he heard the words _sherry_ and _fried chicken for Christmas_ , before Merlin heaved another sigh, shook his head and then looked up at Arthur.

 

“Right,” he said, grabbing Arthur by the arm and dragging him over to his hallway wardrobe. “Get your coat on.”

 

“Why? Where are we going?” Arthur asked, but he did as Merlin said and reached into his closet for his jacket. “I swear to god Merlin if you take me to KFC right now, I will tell Mrs. Richardson that Aithusa ate her newspaper _again._ ”

 

“We are not going to KFC, you daft turnip head,” Merlin shot back. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before, because really, after three fires, you’d think I would know better.”

 

“ _Hey!_ ”

 

“Get your coat on,” Merlin said again. “Because we, Arthur, are going shopping.”

 

***

 

Shopping with Merlin proved to be interesting, to say the least. Arthur himself did not have much experience with purchasing his own groceries. Arthur paid for a housekeeping service that came to his flat twice a week, to make sure everything was clean, handle his laundry and dry-cleaning, and to ensure that his cabinets and refrigerator were well stocked with any items he might need, as well as provide him with a selection of premade gourmet meals that Arthur could microwave after late nights at the office. Arthur had been known to make a quick dash to the store every now and again for anything he was running low on, usually along the lines of milk or coffee, but by and large he was not that familiar with the contents of his local market, and tried to avoid it as much as possible.

 

Merlin, on the other hand, seemed to _absolutely love_ it, as Arthur was quick to discover. He led Arthur from aisle to aisle, pointing at this or commenting on that. Things like _Oooh, they have persimmons today, oh god, I just love persimmons,_ or _Look Arthur, they have basmati rice on sale. With a little bit of veg and some fresh chicken, it’s just perfect,_ had been the soundtrack to their journey as Arthur followed Merlin all around the store. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it, as Merlin’s attention was caught by either a shiny label, new display, or bright colour in the produce aisle.

 

Which was where they were now currently stood, as Merlin started acting out an entire scene with a head of broccoli in his right hand and one of cauliflower in the other.

 

“Brains. Braaaaaains!” he was currently saying, as he made the head of, according to him, zombie broccoli chase the cauliflower around the neat piles of produce.

 

“ _Merlin!_ ” Arthur hissed under his breath, glancing toward the elderly woman who was eyeing the both of them suspiciously, before she clutched her purse tightly to her side and stalked off with a huff.

 

“What?” Merlin asked.

 

“Must you behave like a five year old in public?”

 

“Oh please,” Merlin was waving the hand that held the cauliflower in Arthur’s direction. “You need to lighten up, Arthur. Didn’t you ever play with your food when you were growing up?”

 

“I most certainly did not,” Arthur said, his eyes crossing as he tried to avoid getting hit in the head by the veg Merlin was waving around. “I was taught proper table manners from an early age so as not to embarrass my family.”

 

“And that explains so much about you,” Merlin muttered under his breath.

 

“What?”

 

“Anyway, Arthur, half of the fun of cooking is buying everything you’re going to need, picking just the right thing, and making sure you’ve get the best and freshest ingredients for whatever it is you’re going to prepare. It’s part of the process, an important part. Just as important as the actual cooking,” Merlin explained. This gave Arthur pause, and he stopped and contemplated what he had just been told. He found himself thinking of Gwen. He could easily picture her in her local market, carefully, oh so carefully selecting the items she would need for whatever meal she was planning to prepare for Morgana that night, and how she would never let anyone else pick the ingredients for the food that was going to feed the woman she loved.

 

“Huh,” Arthur said, the realisation slowly coming to him.

 

“And who says you can’t have a bit of fun while doing it? Besides, even you have to admit that this cauliflower does look like a bit like brains, don’t you, even if you don’t have any of your own.” Arthur was about to protest again, except Merlin had somehow managed to get directly in front of him without him noticing, and had shoved the cauliflower in his face.

 

“Idiot,” Arthur said, but there may have been something a bit fond in his voice.

 

Arthur relaxed after that, and let Merlin lead him around the market to whatever section he fancied. In spite of all of his silliness, shopping with Merlin was actually quite fun, talking zombie veg aside, and he did seem to know what he was doing. He shared tips and tricks with Arthur, recommending this item over that, and explaining what to look for in order to make sure Arthur only purchased the best and freshest of ingredients. As they made their way from aisle to aisle, it seemed that Merlin was well known in the store, grinning and waving at every store clerk they passed, greeting them by name and receiving a warm smile in return.

 

Until finally, they were standing in front of the meat counter, and looking over the selection of turkeys on display behind the glass.

 

“Hiya, Merlin. What can I get for you today?” The butcher, a big, beefy armed man, called out to them as they approached.

 

“Hey Bohrs. How’s it going?” Merlin said warmly, with another one of his bright grins.

 

“Good, good. It’s going good, yeah,” Bohrs answered, eyeing Arthur curiously. “So what will it be?”

 

“We’re going to need a half pound of bacon, sliced please,” Merlin told him. “And a turkey. Five pounds or so, if you’ve got one.”

 

“Right.” Bohrs nodded. “With or without the giblets?”

 

“With, please,” Merlin said.

 

“Giblets?” Arthur asked, suddenly unsure. Because if he was not mistaken, he was pretty certain those were the guts. And while he may have come a long way and could now handle suet and goose fat, Arthur was absolutely positive that there was no way in hell he was going to be able to deal with gutting a turkey.

 

Merlin must have heard the change in his voice, because he turned to look at Arthur then, smiling at the expression on his face.

 

“Yes, Arthur, giblets. They’re absolutely essential if you want to make a good and proper gravy.”

 

Arthur made a sound then, or a wheeze, (it was very possibly a wheeze), and said, “Merlin, I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me so far. But there is no bloody way in hell I am going to gut a turkey.”

 

“Ach, don’t be silly Arthur. You won’t have to gut the turkey. The giblets come pre-packaged, inside,” Merlin said. And the bastard was grinning at him, grinning as if this was the best part of their entire sojourn so far. “You just reach in, grab the packet, and pull them right out.”

 

“ _With my hands?_ ” And that was a wheeze, even Arthur had to admit that.

 

“Well, yeah. What else would you use?” Merlin asked him.

 

“Merlin, I don’t care what you say, I am not fisting a turkey!”

 

There was an outraged gasp then that sounded very loud in the sudden silence. Arthur looked over to see the older woman from the produce aisle staring at him with a horrified expression on her face. Arthur replayed his words in his head, realising that he had said that out loud, and felt himself blushing brighter than he ever had in his life, even harder than the time when he had been fourteen years old and Morgana had walked into his room and found him dancing in his underwear to an Avril Levine song.

 

“Don’t worry,” he heard Merlin call from over his shoulder. “He’s going to take it out to dinner first.”

 

“ _Merlin!_ ” Arthur hissed, just as the woman turned around and walked off faster than someone her age had any right to. But the bastard was laughing at him, as if what he had just witnessed was the best thing in the world.

 

“Yeah, well, it’s only right and proper.” Apparently, Bohrs had decided to join in. “I mean fisting, that’s not something you do on a first date, is it?”

 

“And not without plenty of lube.” Merlin was still laughing as he reached over the counter to take the bundled packets Bohrs was holding out. “Speaking of which, we’re going to need to get some butter next.”

 

“Refrigerator aisle,” Bohrs said helpfully.

 

“Oh, and a bucket. We’re definitely going to need a bucket.” Merlin was still laughing, choosing to ignore Arthur as he walked away from the counter and down yet another aisle.

 

“I hate you so much right now,” Arthur muttered, as he found himself following Merlin yet again. “Wait a minute, Merlin, _why do we need a bucket?”_

 

***

 

The bucket, Merlin explained later that night when they were back in Arthur’s kitchen storing all of their purchased groceries, was so that Arthur could brine the turkey. It was best done overnight, and since it was already pretty late, they agreed over a cup of tea to put off the cooking lesson for another evening. They had to wait a few days, as Arthur had a date with Vivian the next evening, and Merlin had week-end plans, so they decided on Monday the following week.

 

As he settled into bed that night, Arthur thought over the previous few hours, and how he’d had a lot of fun that evening. And that how that just seemed to be a way of life for Merlin. To Merlin, everything was an adventure, something to seize and enjoy and not take too seriously. That included things as mundane as grocery shopping, which Arthur had found himself enjoying more than he thought he would.

 

Even if the entire shop now thought he was a pervert, who had a fetish for fisting turkeys.

 

***

 

That Sunday, Arthur was once more at Morgana and Gwen’s for their usual brunch date. He was on his second Bellini, enjoying one of Gwen’s wonderful scones, and wondering if she used butter or shortening as it melted in his mouth, when Morgana suddenly cut him off.

 

“Who’s Merlin, Arthur?” she asked, her eyes narrowed as she stared at him.

 

“Merlin?” Arthur said around a mouthful of scone, surprised by her question. “He’s my neighbour. Why do you ask?”

 

“Well, it’s just that you’ve spent the past hour talking about him non-stop, when you’ve never mentioned him before.”

 

“I have?” And Arthur was surprised, because he hadn’t realised. He looked to Gwen then, who was nodding in agreement.

 

“Yes, you have,” Morgana went on. And there was something very sharp in her gaze as she studied him. “Who is he?”

 

“Oh, well, he’s my neighbour, like I said.” Arthur said, putting down his scone. “And he’s helping me learn how to cook.”

 

“Helping you learn how to cook? Really?” Morgana asked in that same tone.

 

“Yes, Morgana, really.” Arthur said flatly. He was suddenly feeling defensive, and the way Morgana continued to stare at him was making him uncomfortable. “In spite of what you may think, I am capable of making new friends, you know.”

 

“Of course you are, Arthur,” Gwen interjected, casting her own sharp gaze in Morgana’s direction. “It’s just…”

 

“Just what?” Arthur asked when Gwen didn’t continue.

 

“It’s just that you’ve been smiling and laughing the whole time you’ve been talking about him,” Gwen finally said. “And I can’t remember the last time either of us have seen you smile like that, Arthur, that’s all.”

 

“Oh,” was all Arthur could say. And suddenly the scone he had been enjoying just a moment before tasted like ashes in his mouth.

 

“Anyway,” Gwen went on. “He sounds really lovely Arthur. And it’s very nice of him, him teaching you how to cook for Vivian and all.”

 

“Yes. Vivian,” Morgana said. And her voice was cutting and deep, in a way that sliced all the way through to Arthur’s bones. “How is Vivian by the way? Because you’ve been here for over an hour, and you haven’t mentioned her. Not once.”

 

“Morgana,” Gwen hissed, in a tone that surprised Arthur. He seldom, if ever, remembered hearing Gwen speak that way to anyone, especially not to his sister.

 

“What?” Morgana retorted. “I’m just asking. Because you are doing this for her, aren’t you Arthur? Isn’t that what you said? Because you love her, and she makes you happy?”

 

“Yes,” Arthur heard himself answer. “Yes, I am.”

 

“And once Christmas is over, that will be the end of the lessons, won’t it? You won’t be seeing this Merlin bloke anymore, will you?”

 

“’Gana!” Gwen hissed again, even more sharply this time. But Arthur found that he didn’t care. Because Morgana was right. Once Christmas was over, there would be no more evenings in his kitchen with Merlin. They only had one more lesson left, where Arthur was going to learn how to cook the turkey. Then everything would go back to normal, back to how it had been just a few weeks ago. There would be no more lessons, and no more evenings of warm smells coming from Arthur’s kitchen. And no more Merlin.

 

And suddenly everything, not just the scone, tasted like ashes in Arthur’s mouth.

 

When he looked up, maybe a moment or an hour later, it was to find both Morgana and Gwen staring at him, something soft and sad in both of their gazes.

 

“Oh Arthur,” Morgana said softly. And then she reached out, and gently took his hand into her own.

 

***

 

Half an hour later, Arthur was buttoning up his jacket, preparing to leave, when Morgana joined him in the hallway and called out to Gwen, “I’m going to go with Arthur while he waits for his taxi.” She then reached into the closet and pulled out her own coat, ignoring Arthur’s protests as they made their way outside. Arthur had been quiet for the rest of their brunch, and he knew he had been rude, but after Morgana and Gwen’s words, he had found that his heart just hadn’t been in it anymore. He assumed that Morgana was going to pester him for his sudden sullen turn, and for not complimenting Gwen on all of her wonderful cooking, when he always did. So he wasn’t surprised when they reached the front steps, and Morgana grabbed his wrist, pulling on him while she ordered him to, “Sit down, little brother.”

 

Arthur obeyed. As he sat and waited for Morgana to start sniping at him, he watched out of the corner of his eye as his sister reached into her coat, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, and slowly lit one. As she did, Arthur found himself amazed, as he usually was by her, at how only she could look so graceful and elegant as she sat next to him, with her long dark hair, camel coloured coat, and pink bedroom slippers, slowly smoking a cigarette.

 

“I thought you quit those,” Arthur said, when he couldn’t take the silence any longer. Morgana glanced at him with her ever keen and piercing gaze, as she took a slow drag.

 

“I did.” Her voice was calm and steady when she finally spoke, sighing as she exhaled another puff of smoke. “I just have one, every once and a while, when I need something to calm me down. Drives Gwen barmy when I do, but she understands. She doesn’t like it, but she understands.”

 

“She’s more than you deserve,” Arthur retorted, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets to battle the chill.

 

“She is,” Morgana agreed easily, taking another drag before falling silent yet again. Even with the tension in the air, it was surprisingly easy to sit with Morgana on her front steps, while she smoked and Arthur watched the cars drive by. In spite of their bickering and snapping at each other, they had always been close. And this, just being together, had been one of the hallmarks of their relationship for as long as Arthur could remember. But then Morgana spoke, and Arthur found himself jerking at her words.

 

“What happened in Italy, Arthur?” she finally asked.

 

“Italy?” Arthur’s chest went tight. “That was years ago. Why do you want to suddenly talk about Italy?”

 

“Because, Arthur, when I picked you up from the airport, you were all smiles and laughter, telling me all about the Sistine Chapel and the amazing artwork, and how you were going to become an art historian. I’ll never forget it, because you were glowing. I don’t remember ever seeing you look that happy.” And here she paused and took a long careful look at him. “You looked like you had finally found yourself. Like you were in love with the world. And then I dropped you off at Uther’s townhouse, and when I saw you a week later, all of that was gone. There were no more smiles, no more laughter, and all of a sudden you were going to go to Oxford and study the business course, and it was as if Italy had never happened.”

 

Arthur swallowed around a lump that was thick and heavy in his throat. Because he remembered that summer, dreamed about it still. Italy had been everything he had ever wanted, everything he had dreamed it could be, with its glorious artwork and churches and museums and galleries. Vibrant and bright and rich and colourful. And then there had been Lance, who had also been vibrant and bright and rich and colourful. But also generous and kind. And brave, Lance had been oh so very brave, and Arthur had fallen in love for the first time in his life. He had come back from that trip filled with promise and hope and dreams, ready to take on his father, the world, anything and everything, because this was what he knew he was, what he was meant to be.

 

Except when he had arrived home after that trip, and gone to speak to his father in his study, he had found Uther slumped over his desk, a half filled bottle of whiskey in his hands, and a shattered picture frame of him and Morgana on the floor. And his father, the man who controlled billions of dollars and who made world leaders listen to him when he walked into a room, his father had been crying. He had looked up at Arthur then, and proceeded to tell him through his tears, how Arthur was the only son he had left, his only heir, and how it was his duty, his responsibility to carry on everything he had built up, continue the family name and line, and to never, ever let the memory of Arthur’s mother come to shame.

 

And just like that, in the span of less than an hour, all of Arthur’s dreams and hopes had died, as Uther laid the burdens of his entire life on the shoulders of his eighteen year old son. Arthur had fought back at first, but even then he knew it had been weak. But Morgana had her freedom, and if this was the cost, then it was a price Arthur was more than willing to pay.

 

Arthur never went back to Italy, in spite of his promises to Lance. And he never mentioned his name again, not to anyone. Not even to himself. He gave up on his dreams of art history and preservation, and turned all of his attention to his business course in Oxford and making his father proud of his only son.

 

“Arthur, what happened in Italy?” Morgana asked again, jerking Arthur’s focus back to the present. Her hand was on his arm, her fingers tight. But her eyes were kind as she stared at him.

 

“Nothing Morgana. Nothing happened in Italy. Just leave it all right?” he said, pulling away from her.

 

“I will not leave it Arthur.” She responded, her tone matching his as she shifted so that she could face him directly. “Because you’ve never talked about it, to anyone and I think you need to.”

 

“I don’t see what Italy has to do with anything, and I don’t know why you brought it up all of sudden, Morgana.” Arthur was starting to get angry. He could feel the rage, like a tight and bitter pit in the base of his stomach slowly starting to crack its shell and reach out from where he kept it buried so deep within.

 

“I bring it up because it’s important.” Morgana was undeterred. “I bring it up because, like I said, I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you smile or laugh like that.” And here she paused. “Until today. When you were talking about Merlin.”

 

Arthur froze. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that he could do or say in that moment that would take her words back.

 

But Morgana had always been able to read him, to see the truth in the lies that Arthur told, even to himself, and she must have seen something in his face. Because her face softened, and her eyes became kind. Too kind. More than Arthur deserved.

 

“Oh Arthur,” she said softly, reaching out and wrapping her arm around his shoulder, where she pulled him close, and Arthur could smell the soft vanilla scent of her shampoo.

 

She held him there, quietly on her front steps, while Arthur’s body trembled and shook, in rage, fear or desperation, Arthur could not tell. She seemed to be waiting for something from him, what, Arthur didn’t know. But at that moment, he couldn’t; he just couldn’t. And he didn’t think he ever would.

 

“I can’t Morgana,” Arthur finally said, when he had to say something. “I just can’t.”

 

She held him for a minute longer, and then she sighed, let him go and leaned back. Arthur thought that would be the end of it, that she would let it go, but he should have known better. This was Morgana after all. She flicked her cigarette butt away and reached for another smoke, which she lit slowly before she leaned back and looked at him, her eyes once again cunning and sharp. But her voice was kind when she finally did speak.

 

“Do you remember when I came out Arthur?” she asked around an exhale of smoke.

 

 “Of course I do, Morgana.” As if he could ever forget. He had been fifteen years old when his sister finally confessed her truth to Uther. He had been perched at the top of the parlour stairs, watching as his father and Morgana had shouted and screamed at each other. There had been tears and curses, and then Uther dragging her by the hair, and throwing her outside with nothing more than her mobile phone and the clothes she had on her back. Arthur had run to his bedroom window, watching, pounding on the glass as she made one desperate phone call after another, until eventually, an hour later, a car finally showed up and drove her away. “It was fucking horrible.”

 

“Yes, it was,” Morgana said, quite easily, as if they were discussing nothing more than the latest cricket scores. “But that’s not what I remember most about that time.” She looked back at him, and there was a small smile on her lips. “What I remember the most is my little brother, who even after all of that, never once stopped being there for me. My little brother who called and called, and never stopped until he found out where I was. My little brother, who would sneak out of the house, with bags of my clothes and books, and leave me money whenever he visited, even though I told him not to. My little brother, who never once turned his back on me.”

 

“Of course I wouldn’t, Morgana. You’re my big sister.” And it was true. She was. She always had been. Even if, once upon a time, the name on her birth certificate had read Mordred.

 

“Then why would you think I would turn my back on you now?” she asked him, and there was the sharpness, the cunning, that Arthur had never been able to outwit.

 

And something in Arthur collapsed then. Just collapsed, and left him feeling as empty and deflated as an old balloon forgotten on the ground.

 

“I can’t Morgana. I just can’t be…”

 

“What? Gay?” Arthur cringed, visibly cringed at her words. “Maybe you’re not. Maybe you’re bisexual. Or demisexual. Or pansexual.”

 

“That’s a lot of labels, Morgana.” Arthur knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it, and he was not surprised when Morgana reached out and smacked the back of his head. “Sorry. Sorry. I know better.”

 

“You most certainly do,” she said primly, straightening her coat where it had become wrinkled over her knees. “And yes, those are a lot of labels. And maybe you’re none of those things. But when you don’t know, when you’ve spent most of your life trying to find out what you are, how you fit, sometimes those labels are a lifeline, the only lifeline you have.”

 

“I know Morgs. I do.” Arthur reached out and took her hand, trying to convey how sorry he was, how he would never, ever hurt her deliberately, especially about this.

 

“The thing is Arthur,” Morgana said, squeezing backs. “The labels really don’t matter. The only thing I ever want you to call yourself is happy. And I don’t think you can. I don’t think you’ve been able to. Not for a long, long time.”

 

“I can’t, Morgana,” Arthur heard himself saying again. “I can’t do that to Father. He’ll be all alone then, and I just can’t do that to him.”

 

“And who’s fault is that?” she snapped. “Uther’s made his own choices, and his happiness is not your responsibility. And love…Love is not conditional, Arthur. You don’t get to claim that you love someone, but only if they do this or change everything about themselves just to fit your ideals. Love is the best thing in the world. And it’s unconditional. Uther has never understood that. But that’s his problem. Not yours. Don’t let him drag you down with him. You deserve so much more than that, Arthur. So much more.”

 

Arthur stared at his sister then, finding that he was amazed by her yet again, as he so often was. She was at her best when she was like this: fierce and protective, a warrior of sword and heart, who had never turned away from any of the battles life had thrown at her. Gwen was indeed a very lucky woman.

 

“Is that what you have with Gwen?” he ventured after a moment, when he could finally speak again.

 

“I do.” And then his sister smiled, and Arthur once again thought there was no woman in the world who could compare to Morgana’s beauty when she spoke of Gwen. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not easy. We still fight and get on each other’s nerves. And she’s really not going to be happy when I get back and she smells all of the smoke on me.”

 

Arthur couldn’t help it. He laughed. She looked at him and smiled.

 

“You deserve it, you rabid cow,” he teased, nudging her shoulder with his own.

 

“I’ll let you have that one, little brother. But just this once.” She was still grinning at him, but then her face shifted and her expression turned serious once more. “Whatever you decide Arthur, just make sure you’re making the decision for yourself, and not for someone else. And know, that no matter what you choose, you’ll always have me and Gwen, all right?”

 

“I’ll try Morgana,” was all that Arthur could admit to.

 

“Hmm, see that you do.” She tossed her cigarette to the kerb with an expert flick of her fingers. “And anyway, Gwen was right. This Merlin of yours sounds absolutely lovely. You should bring him to brunch sometime. I would love to meet him Arthur.” And then Morgana leaned in, and laid a gentle kiss to Arthur’s temple, before she rose, turned around, and disappeared through her building door in a wave of long hair, camel coat, and pink bedroom slippers.

 

Arthur sat on her steps for a few minutes more, quietly stunned. Because Morgana had never, not once, told Arthur to invite anyone else to any of their brunch dates.

 

***

 

“So,” Merlin said the following Monday evening, as they were stood in Arthur’s kitchen, staring down at the naked and brined turkey. “Are you ready for this Arthur?”

 

Arthur took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and nodded. “Bring it.”

 

“Right.” Merlin nodded back. “So go wash your hands, then cover them in butter, and fist this son of a bitch like it’s never been fisted before.”

 

And Arthur did. Following Merlin’s instructions, Arthur prepped and seasoned the bird, which included covering both the outside and inside (yech) with a coating of butter, before wrapping it in layers of the sliced bacon. He pre-heated his oven, greased the baking pan, and then started working on the gravy, all under Merlin’s watchful eye. While he worked, Merlin continued to offer his usual helpful tips, until the turkey was in the oven, the gravy was slowly simmering on the stove, and they were sharing their usual cup of tea while they waited to taste the final results.

 

“So, Christmas is in just a few days. Do you think you’re ready?” Merlin asked.

 

“Yeah, I think so.” Arthur nodded, smiling at Merlin. “I think I’ll do all right. Thank you Merlin. I was a disaster at first, but, well, you really helped. Thank you.”

 

“No worries, Arthur. I knew you could do it. And it was fun, yeah?”

 

“Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?” But in spite of his words, Arthur once more felt the pit in his stomach. Felt its weight get even heavier and its shell beginning to crack. Christmas was this coming Friday, and this was their last lesson together. After tonight, there would be no more tutorials with Merlin. And Arthur knew he was going to miss this. He decided to change the subject.

 

“Where did you learn to cook like this, by the way? You never said,” he asked.

 

“Mum,” Merlin said simply. There was something in his eyes and his voice, quick and fleeting, that Arthur noticed, but couldn’t catch. “She taught me. It was just me and her growing up, and I can’t tell you how many nights I spent by her side, in the kitchen, chopping up veg. I always just took it for granted, you know, coming back from school and having a nice home cooked meal waiting for me. It wasn’t until I moved away to attend uni that I realised how much work it was.”

 

“Yeah, it is an awful amount, isn’t it?” Arthur agreed.

 

“It is and it isn’t,” Merlin said. There was something in his tone that made Arthur pay attention. “When you’re doing it for the right reasons, or the right person, it’s an act of love. That makes it easy. And that’s what you need to remember, Arthur.” Merlin leaned forward, his gaze intent and bright as he tapped Arthur’s knee lightly. “Any berk can just follow a recipe. It’s not that hard. Even you could do it.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“But cooking is more than just about chopping and putting things in your oven. It’s about the why. My mum always says…” Here Merlin paused, and took a quick swallow before he went on. “That she never minded cooking for me, because I was her son, and she loved me, and she wanted me to have a home cooked meal whenever I got home. That she did it out of love. And that’s what you need to remember this Friday, Arthur, when you’re cooking for Vivian. You have to think about her, and all of the reasons why you’re making this meal for her, and put that feeling into everything you’re doing. That’s what’s going to turn all of your effort from just following a recipe into a feast, yeah? Do you understand, Arthur?”

 

It was Arthur’s turn to swallow, and he nodded, because he could taste all of that in Merlin’s cooking. The care and attention to detail, and how he was willing to share not only the recipes, but the love his mother had raised him with, while the two of them had cooked in her kitchen.

 

“Yeah, Merlin, I understand.”

 

“Good.” Merlin leaned back and then smiled at him. “Just remember that, and everything will be fine.”

 

“I will.” Arthur paused to take a sip of his tea. “She sounds lovely, by the way. Your mother.”

 

“Yeah. One of a kind, my mum,” Merlin agreed with a nod, but he wasn’t looking at Arthur as he said it. Arthur found he was suddenly curious.

 

“How did she take it, when you – when you came out?” he heard himself ask.

 

“Mum?” Merlin turned back to look at Arthur, his eyebrows raised. “She was brilliant. Just gave me a kiss, and then a hug, fed me some biscuits and said she was wondering when I was going to tell her. I thought it was this huge secret, but I guess all the David Beckham posters in my room were kind of a giveaway.”

 

“Yeah, not the most stealthy of moves there, Merlin.”

 

“Oh shut it. I was 13 and I thought he was fit.” Merlin laughed. “I felt bad for her though. She was so supportive and accepting, but she really didn’t know what to do. She tried her best, but no mum wants to talk their child about condoms and lube, and what to do with their dicks, so she took me to Uncle Gaius, and asked him for advice.”

 

“Uncle Gaius?” Arthur asked, the name sounding familiar to him.

 

“An old family friend,” Merlin explained. “He was what you would have called a _confirmed bachelor_ back in the day. I inherited the flat from him, you know.”

 

“Oh,” Arthur said, suddenly remembering the man Arthur used to occasionally see in the hallway. He had been a distinguished looking old fellow, with long white hair, and a pair of eyebrows whose arch would have quelled even his father in one of his rages.

 

“Really, Arthur,” Merlin was laughing now. “I make a good living as a physio, but there’s still no way in hell I could afford a flat like this on just my salary.”

 

“Oh,” Arthur said again, because he had wondered. They were in a very nice building in Knightsbridge, and he may have, just out of curiosity mind you, looked up the salaries for physios once he had learned what Merlin did for a living. And Merlin was right. He probably did make a very good living, but not enough to afford a flat in such an exclusive area of London.

 

“I used to live in North London with two flatmates,” Merlin went on. “Friends from uni. And Gwaine and Percy are great, I love the both of them to death. But then the two of them finally decided to get together, and it was about time, because let me tell you, there was so much unresolved sexual tension between those two that it was driving me bonkers. But still, you can only come home so many times to naked arses pounding away on your kitchen counter before you decide you need to get your own flat. But then, Uncle Gaius passed, and I found out he left the flat to me, and well, here I am.”

 

“Yes. Well, here you are…Wait a minute? Naked arses on your kitchen counter? _Where you eat?_ ”

 

And Merlin laughed.

 

The rest of the evening passed quickly after that. Merlin regaled Arthur with stories about his former flatmates, and Arthur told Merlin a bit more about his sister and Gwen, until eventually (all too soon in Arthur’s opinion) the turkey was done, and they were both sat at Arthur’s kitchen table, about to taste the results of Arthur’s efforts.

 

“Oh Arthur,” Merlin said, after he had slowly sampled a bite of the breast. “This is wonderful. You’re going to do just fine. Vivian will be thrilled.”

 

Arthur had to admit, all of the brining and seasoning, and coating the turkey in butter and then bacon had produced a delicious bird, rich and savoury, with a warm, silken texture that melted on his tongue.

 

“That’s…that’s not too bad, is it?” Arthur could hear the surprise in his own voice.

 

“Not too bad?” Merlin asked. “Arthur, this is absolutely brilliant.” He was smiling at Arthur, proud and so very pleased.

 

“Yeah,” Arthur said, feeling his cheeks grow warm at Merlin’s praise. He looked down and took another forkful of turkey, making a big production of putting it in his mouth so that Merlin wouldn’t see his blush. “Anyway, I can’t wait to see the look on their faces when Vivian tells Sofia and Val about this. A home cooked meal for Christmas. She’s going to be so happy, and she’ll have bragging rights for months.”

 

“She’s a very lucky woman. Very very lucky,” Merlin said. And there was that tone to his voice again, the one that Arthur had heard before, yet didn’t understand. However, when he looked back at Merlin, he was rising from the table as if he hadn’t said anything at all.

 

“Right, well, that’s the master class over for today. And it’s late, and I really need to get going.” Merlin carried his plate over to Arthur’s sink, but then suddenly stopped. “Oh wait! Before I forget, I got you something.” Merlin rushed over to where his messenger bag was resting near Arthur’s hall closet, riffled through the contents, until he turned around with a small, brightly wrapped bundle in his hands. Arthur looked down at the package, noticing that Merlin had wrapped it in paper printed with surfing polar bears wearing colourful Bermuda shorts, and smiled.

 

“Hold on,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere, I got you something too.” He dashed back to his bedroom, and came back carrying a parcel of his own, which he had wrapped himself in elegant red and gold striped paper, tied with a crimson velvet ribbon.

 

“Arthur, you shouldn’t have,” Merlin laughed as they exchanged gifts.

 

“Neither should you,” Arthur told him, weighing the bundle in his hands. It was surprisingly light. “What do you think? On three?”

 

“Three,” Merlin agreed, and then tore into his own gift.

 

“Hey! That’s cheating!” Arthur laughed as he ripped into his own present, to discover it was a carefully folded bundle of cloth. Arthur unraveled it to see that it was a chef’s apron, with an image on the front. The Mona Lisa, with a chef’s hat hanging from her head at a jaunty angle. Arthur felt himself torn between laughing and suddenly wanting to cry. Because he had mentioned his love for the Renaissance artists, all of those weeks ago, when their lessons had begun. And Merlin had remembered, and purchased him the perfect gift to celebrate that love.

 

“Oh Arthur, this is absolutely brilliant!” He heard Merlin say, and looked up to see him wrapping the Doctor Who scarf Arthur had gotten for him around his neck. He had been searching online for a present for Morgana when he had come across it, and he had immediately thought of Merlin and their episode marathon, and decided then and there that it was the perfect gift.

 

“Do you like it?” Arthur asked, taking in the smile on Merlin’s cheeks, and the brightness in his eyes. And he was suddenly very pleased and proud of himself for being the one to put that look on Merlin’s face.

 

“I love it, thank you.” Merlin grinned. “What about you? Do you like it?”

 

“I love it. It’s perfect.” Arthur said, draping the apron over his neck so Merlin could see the final result.

 

“Yes well, I thought it would suit, given how you’re a proper cook and all now,” Merlin said.

 

“It’s wonderful, Merlin, really.”

 

“Yes, well, anyway.” There was a stillness between them now, heavy and uncomfortable, when it had never been that way before. “Good luck on Friday, Arthur. Just remember everything I told you, and you should be fine.”

 

“Thank you, Merlin. For everything. Seriously, I couldn’t have done all of this without you. Just…Thank you.”

 

“You’re more than welcome, Arthur. It was my pleasure.” Merlin had picked up his messenger bag and was turning toward the door before he stopped and smiled kindly at Arthur. And then he suddenly lurched forward, and embraced Arthur in a hug that was both tight and gentle. His arms were strong, and his shoulders a bit bony beneath Arthur’s hands as he hugged him back, and yet Arthur had never felt a hug as warm or secure as the one Merlin gave him that night. It made him think of Italy, and sunshine, and the Mona Lisa’s smile. Of the sweetness of gelato, the crunch of bruschetta, and the bite of garlic on his tongue.

 

And of a yearning that went deeper than his skin, deeper than his bones, and sliced through that pit in his stomach, through all of its lies and its truths, and into the very core of his heart.

 

Then Merlin let him go, and was stepping away. “Happy Christmas, Arthur. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

 

“Happy Christmas, Merlin,” Arthur told him, watching as Merlin stepped through his door. “And yeah, you will.”

 

Then Merlin was gone, and Arthur was alone in a flat that smelled, but didn’t feel, like Christmas should. It felt like a goodbye.

 

And the pit in Arthur’s stomach grew even larger.

 

***

 

On Christmas morning, Arthur rose bright and early, brewed a strong pot of coffee, put on the apron Merlin had given him, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work. He had Merlin’s recipes, his own newly acquired skills, and even a set of notes from his last cooking lesson, where Merlin had been kind enough to write out a list of instructions of when to do what, so everything was synched and would be perfectly timed to finish just as Vivian arrived. She was due at his flat at 2:00 pm, and as it was just going on eight, Arthur knew he had his work cut out for him.

 

So he sliced and he diced. He stirred and sautéed. He preheated the oven and kneaded the dough, and even managed to fist the bloody turkey. And while he worked, always paying attention to his hands and the smells around him, he remembered Merlin’s words from Monday night, and thought about all of the reasons why he was doing this as he cooked.

 

And he tried, he really did try to think about Vivian as he worked. While he carefully mixed the dough for the bread, he remembered the feel of Vivian’s cheek, and how soft and smooth it was under his fingers. Except, he found himself wondering instead about the way Merlin’s skin had looked that night they lay together on his couch, the day Ellie had died, and Arthur had been tempted, so tempted to press a kiss to his throat. And as he cut and sautéed the garlic for the Brussel sprouts, he tried to remember the sound of Vivian’s voice as they laughed at a shared joke, but heard instead the echoes of Merlin’s rolling laughter, and this way his sense of humour could be sharp and cutting, and how he loved to tease, but never in a cruel way, never mocking. And as he carefully cut out the stars from the pie dough for the top of the mince pies, he knew he should have been thinking of Vivian’s eyes, pale blue and always so carefully highlighted by an elegant application of eyeshadow, but instead found himself thinking of the indigo of Merlin’s gaze. It was darker than even an Italian night sky, and if there was anyone who had stars in their eyes, it was Merlin, when he spoke of his mother or looked at the two monsters that he insisted were dogs, or even at Arthur when he had done something right and Merlin couldn’t hide how pleased he was. Gentleness and kindness, laughter with a bit of a bite, a generous spirit and an endless patience, all of these things, and Merlin, Merlin, _Merlin_ , were what Arthur thought about as he prepared his holiday meal.

 

Until finally, it was two o’clock, everything was ready, and Vivian was ringing the downstairs doorbell.

 

Arthur ran his hands through his hair, took one last look around at the tasteful decorations his housekeeping service had installed at his request, and the carefully laid table settings, and nodded his approval. It was done. He had done it, and now it was time to present Vivian with her Christmas feast.

 

“Hello, darling,” Vivian said, kissing his cheek in greeting. “Happy Christmas.”

 

“Happy Christmas, Vivian,” Arthur kissed her back. “You look lovely. Here, come inside and give me your coat.”

 

“But, aren’t we going to your father’s for Christmas?” she asked, as she handed it over and then took a curious look around Arthur’s flat.

 

“We are, but that’s later tonight.” Arthur responded as he hung up her coat. “I have a surprise for you first, and I wanted to give it to you here.”

 

“A surprise?” Vivian said, as she walked into Arthur’s sitting room and looked around. “Oh, do tell, darling. You know how much I love your surprises.”

 

“Well, you’ve been such a wonderful part of my life this past year, and I wanted to do something special.  So I decided to cook a traditional Christmas supper, just for you.”

 

“You…cooked?” And there was an arch to her eyebrow, that spoke of her disbelief. “Really?”

 

“Yes, really,” Arthur said, leading her to the couch.

 

“But why?” She sounded so surprised, as if the idea of someone making her a home-cooked meal was something she had never considered before. But it wasn’t a happy surprise that Arthur read on her face; it seemed instead a little doubtful, and, if Arthur were honest, a little disappointed.

 

“Because I thought it would be romantic, darling. And that way we can just sit and talk and enjoy each other’s company,” he tried to explain.

 

“Oh, well. I’m sure it will be absolutely lovely then, Arthur,” she finally agreed, but still looked as if she had her doubts.

 

“It will, you’ll see,” Arthur told her. “Now, would you like a mug of cider? It’s homemade, and the recipe is amazing.”

 

“That sounds wonderful, Arthur.” She seemed to pull herself together then, and managed to smile at him. “As I’m sure the rest of the meal will be.”

 

But once everything was ready, all of the dishes plated and served, and they were sat at Arthur’s table, Arthur placed a forkful of the carefully sliced turkey into his mouth, expecting it to melt warm and rich on his tongue like it had the other night, and instead, instead he tasted nothing. The meat was flavourless and dry. He reached for a bite of potatoes next, waiting for the texture he had remembered, smooth and creamy, golden like butter, soft as an Italian summer sun, and instead all he could was starch and sand. And the cider, when he took a sip, trying to wash the taste out of his mouth, was not warm and spicy, but sour and stale, like water that had been left to sit for too long.

 

Arthur didn’t understand. He had followed Merlin’s recipes exactly, doing everything Merlin had said, just as he had been taught. But instead of a delicious Christmas feast, warm and savoury, laced with the flavours of love, all Arthur could taste was ashes. Ashes on his lips, his tongue, and in the back of his throat. Ashes, ashes, ashes, that choked and burned and coated everything that he breathed.

 

“Well, it’s not too bad. And really, it is the thought that counts, darling. And you did try. Even I can see that.” Arthur looked up at the sound of Vivian’s voice, watching as she took a small, deliberate nibble of one of the Christmas buns (plaster, they tasted like plaster), and then laid it carefully back down upon her plate. And he knew.

 

Because Vivian, elegant, charming, lovely, and beautiful, she was so very beautiful, Vivian was not the one who Arthur wanted to spend Christmas with. She was not the one he had thought of all morning while he had worked so hard in his kitchen. And she was not the one Arthur’s heart had really wanted to cook for.

 

Because she wasn’t Merlin. And it was Merlin who had given Arthur’s life colour and flavour and texture and a light even brighter than the warmest Italian sun. Merlin, who had shared his time and his dogs and his mother’s amazing recipes with Arthur. Merlin, who had made room for Arthur in his life, when Arthur was sure there were other things he could have been doing. Merlin who made everything sweet and savoury and just a little bit biting, just by being there. He had given Arthur a taste of him, and now that Arthur knew the spice of Merlin in his life, everything else was just bland and dull and flavourless.

 

Arthur took one final look at Vivian, knowing that this would probably be the last time he ever saw her in his flat, and slowly shook his head.

 

“Oh Vivian, I am so sorry,” he said softly. Because he was. Vivian was lovely, and he had never meant to hurt her. He really hadn’t.

 

“It’s all right, Arthur,” she said, tossing her cloth napkin on top of her plate and the barely touched food. “You did try after all. And I’m sure if we leave now, we can still make it to your father’s in time for supper.”

 

“No, you don’t understand.” Arthur reached out and gently, regretfully took her hand into his own. “I am so, so _sorry._ ”

 

“Arthur, I told you it’s all right.” She said, giving him a tiny squeeze back. “Why do you keep apologizing? I don’t understand.”

 

“I know,” Arthur said. And then he leaned back, let go of her hand, let go of Vivian, and everything else is his life so that he could reach, for the first time, for something for himself instead.

 

***

 

An hour later, Arthur was lying on his back on the floor of his sitting room, staring up at the cranberry sauce stain on his ceiling. He had shattered plates he had to sweep up, gravy he was sure he was never going to be able to get out of his couch, and _bloody hell_ , he had no idea Vivian could throw like that, because if he was not mistaken, that was a turkey leg hanging from his light fixture. He was sure the damned thing was laughing at him, not that he could blame it, because he had shoved his fist up its arse after all. He was going to have to find a ladder, as he was certain that even his housekeeping service was not going to send someone over to remove bird bits from his overhead lights on Christmas day, no matter how much he offered to pay them.

 

It hadn’t been pretty, the past hour. He had tried to be gentle, tried to be kind, but then there had been accusations and shouting, and Vivian shrieking at him that she should have known better, that her friends had been right all along, and that Arthur didn’t have a passionate bone in his body. And then she had started throwing things, and Arthur was glad he still played footie with his mates every once in a while, because he had needed to duck and dodge, and try to keep her away from the cutlery in his kitchen. Until finally with a last threat of _just wait until she told her father_ , she had stormed out the door, and left Arthur to the mess of his flat and his life.

 

And a turkey leg hanging from his light fixture.

 

Except as Arthur lay there, he realised that it really wasn’t that bad. Yes, Lord Olaf was probably going to tell Uther about what Arthur had done. His father was definitely going to make sure Arthur knew how disappointed he was in him, how this was yet another expectation that Arthur had failed to meet. And he was probably going to spend the rest of Christmas alone, instead of sharing a home cooked meal with someone he loved, as he had originally planned. And yes, he had a lot of cleaning up to do before he could go to sleep that night.

 

But his father was always disappointed in him, and Arthur was suddenly tired, so very tired of trying to meet his impossible expectations. And there was nothing in his apartment that a bit of soap and water and elbow grease wouldn’t eventually fix. And he didn’t have to spend the rest of this Christmas alone. He could go to Morgana’s today, instead of on Boxing Day like he usually did, where he knew his sister and Gwen would gladly have a seat for him at their table, while Gwen offered him understanding smiles, and Morgana would call Vivian a cow, and Arthur would let her.

 

Because seriously: _turkey leg on his light fixture._

 

But they would make room for him in their holidays, just like they always made room for him in their lives. Because that was love. It was handmade socks and scarves in pretty colours. A home cooked meal with ingredients you picked yourself. It was letting a small, white cotton ball lead the way, simply because it made her happy. Because when you loved someone, their happiness was as important as your own. It was easy to give, and even better when shared. Even if, especially if, it didn’t meet with someone else’s ideal. It just was, and that’s what made it special, made it perfect, made it worth all of the home cooked meals in the world.

 

And after that, after the cleaning and the sharing and the facing his father, Arthur was going to have to wait until after the holidays so that he could see Merlin again. Once he did, he would ask Merlin if he would like to come over so that Arthur could make him a meal, with his very own hands, that he would mix and stir and simmer and sauté, all the while thinking of Merlin’s laughter and his smile and the way his presence filled Arthur’s flat, his entire life, with adventure and freedom and happiness.

 

Arthur was still staring at the turkey leg, trying to figure out if he could use a broom stick handle to get it down, when all of a sudden, out in the hallway, he heard a very familiar voice.

 

_“Goddammit Kilgarrah, put that down! Aithusa no! Leave Mrs. Richardson’s newspaper alone!”_

 

Arthur was on his feet and running through his door and into the hallway in less than a second, where Merlin was struggling with his monsters as he made his way to the lift.

 

“Merlin?” Arthur called out, surprised but thrilled to see Merlin standing there. Merlin turned at the sound of his voice, and Arthur saw that Merlin was wearing his dark blue pea coat, but also the scarf Arthur had gifted him with, wrapped around his neck. “Merlin, what are you doing here?”

 

“Oh hello, Arthur,” Merlin replied. “Happy Christmas.” Aithusa and Kilgarrah saw Arthur, and started to yank on their leashes, making their usual ruckus, as if Arthur too was now one of their favourite people.

 

“Happy Christmas, Merlin. What are you doing here?”

 

“I…live here?” Merlin said slowly, obviously confused by the question.

 

“Yes, but it’s Christmas. I thought you’d be going back to Ealdor to spend Christmas with your mother,” Arthur said.

 

“I never said that Arthur.”

 

“No, but I just assumed you would.” Arthur took a step forward and saw how Merlin had turned his face away, swallowing as he did. A horrible feeling settled in the pit of Arthur’s stomach. “Merlin…Why aren’t you spending Christmas in Ealdor with your mother?”

 

“My mother’s dead Arthur,” Merlin whispered. “She died last year. Cancer.”

 

“Oh, Merlin. I’m so sorry. You never said. Why didn’t say anything?”

 

“Why would I have said anything, Arthur? You didn’t know her, and I was happy to share her recipes with you.” Merlin told him, twining the leashes around his fingers as he spoke.

 

“And there’s no one else?” Arthur couldn’t believe it. Merlin was so warm, so friendly, he couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t have someplace to go for the holidays.

 

“My friend Will’s still back in Ealdor. But he just got married to his childhood sweetheart, and it’s their first Christmas together so I didn’t want to interfere. And Gwaine’s taking Percy back to his home so that he can meet his parents, and I didn’t want to get in the way of that either, so…” Merlin shrugged as his voice trailed off.

 

“So you were just going to spend Christmas alone? Why didn’t you say anything?” Arthur asked, taking another step forward as he reached down to scratch Kilgarrah’s ear.

 

“I’m not alone, Arthur. I have Aithusa and Kilgarrah and Freya with me.” Merlin argued. “And you were going to be spending Christmas with Vivian, so why would I have said anything?” Merlin stopped and squinted at Arthur. “Wait a minute. Where’s Vivian, Arthur?”

 

“She’s gone, don’t worry about it,” Arthur told him, giving Aithusa’s ear a turn beneath his fingers.

 

“Gone? What do you mean gone?” Merlin asked. “What happened? Didn’t she enjoy the meal you made?”

 

“Oh god, no,” Arthur said as he straightened. “It was an absolute disaster. Everything was horrible, and then we broke up.”

 

_“What?”_

 

“Don’t worry about it Merlin, it’s all right. It’s even better than all right, actually.”

 

“But-but you worked so hard, Arthur. You had everything so carefully planned, and I know you knew what you were doing. I was there. What went wrong?” Merlin looked so crestfallen that Arthur wanted to laugh. But he knew that now wasn’t the time, or the place. He needed all of his courage and his strength for what he was about to admit to next. And he hoped, he prayed, that he wasn’t wrong about this, and that maybe, just maybe, for the first time in his life, Arthur could get the Christmas gift that he most wanted.

 

“Nothing went wrong, Merlin,” he said, taking yet another step forward until he was directly in front of Merlin and they were stood there face to face. “I did everything you taught me, and followed each recipe step by step. And it would have been perfect, should have been perfect, except…” And here Arthur faltered, just for a second, not out of fear but because he knew that his next words were going to be huge, and important, and he needed to make sure he said them just right.

 

“Except?” Merlin prodded when he didn’t go on.

 

“Except everything came out wrong, because Vivian wasn’t the one I wanted to spend Christmas with. And she wasn’t the one I wanted to cook for.”

 

“No?” Merlin asked, in a voice that was timid and shy.

 

“No Merlin, she wasn’t.” Arthur said, reaching out to brush a stray curl back behind Merlin’s ear. “The one person, the only person, I want to cook for this Christmas, and every Christmas, is you.”

 

“Really?” There was so much in Merlin’s voice in that one, simple word. Fear and yearning and hope and want and even, Arthur was sure, the beginnings of love.

 

“Yes, Merlin, really,” Arthur said, taking one last step closer so that he could reach out and gently cup Merlin’s cheeks in his hands. “So what do you say? Will you let me come with you while you walk those monsters, and then come back to mine, so I can make you the best Christmas supper you’ve ever had?”

 

Merlin never answered him, deciding instead to lean forward and press his own lips to Arthur’s in a kiss that was both an answer and a promise, and sweeter, softer, richer than anything else Arthur had ever tasted in his life.

 

***

 

They went out together and walked Merlin’s dogs, where Arthur, knowing that he could have this, that it was now his, reached out and held Merlin’s hand the entire time, and Merlin smiled at him with eyes that were bright and filled with delight, as if he were the lucky one who had been given a great gift.

 

They returned to the building and Arthur’s flat, took one look around ( _“Did you know that there’s a turkey leg hanging from your ceiling Arthur?” “Yes, Merlin, I know.”_ ) and decided, after picking up the Christmas pudding from Arthur’s linen cupboard, to head back to Merlin’s.

 

Once back within Merlin’s space, which Arthur saw had been decorated with a crooked Christmas tree with some of the tackiest ornaments Arthur had ever seen and garlands everywhere, Merlin pushed Arthur onto his couch, kissed him again, and told him to just wait there while Merlin made him some supper. Arthur had protested at first, saying that he was the one who should be cooking, but Merlin silenced him with yet another kiss and told him to hush because, he explained, Arthur wasn’t the only one who wanted to make a meal for someone special, and didn’t he know that in the best relationships, the strongest relationships, those couples cooked together.

 

Arthur would always remember their first Christmas supper that year, where they dined on the fried chicken Merlin had made, and the Christmas pudding that had been the first thing they had ever cooked together, (and no, Arthur didn’t burn his eyebrows off, thank you very much) in Merlin’s flat, while they watched a Doctor Who marathon and laughed and joked and teased each other, while the monsters and Merlin’s cat fondly looked on.

 

It was a simple meal, but to Arthur it was a feast, rich and nourishing, savoury and filling, melting in his mouth and wrapping him in warmth.

 

And then later that night, Arthur got to feast again, as he lay with Merlin for the first time, discovering the sweetness of a kiss, the smoothness of a shoulder, the hidden treat at the bend of a knee. In Merlin’s arms, Arthur felt the pit that had been lodged in his stomach for so long now at last crack its shell, where it blossomed and bloomed and filled Arthur’s heart, until finally, finally there were no more ashes in Arthur’s mouth. There was only Merlin, and his lips and his hands and his heartbeat that pulled at Arthur’s own, and the taste of love on each other’s skin.

 

 

***

 

**_One Year Later_ **

 

“All right, all right, calm down you bastards, _calm down!_ ” Arthur called as he made his way through the front door of the flat, while Kilgarrah and Aithusa jumped up and down in greeting. There was a trick to it, a way of opening the door and twisting your body through the gap that prevented the dogs from escaping, and also gave your back enough support in case Kilgarrah decided that he needed to check your face for meatballs.

 

“Arthur, is that you?” He heard Merlin’s voice from the bedroom as he made his way into the kitchen, the special order he had gone to pick up held high over his head to keep the dogs from getting to it. He placed it on top of the refrigerator and bent down to scritch the ears of both dogs. “Did you get it?”

 

“Yeah Merlin, who else would it be?” Arthur called back. “And yes I did.” Aithusa decided she’d had enough of his attention and darted off back to their bedroom. “Aren’t you ready yet? We need to leave in five minutes or we’ll be late, and Morgana will kill us. You know how she is about time, Merlin.”

 

A year ago, on Boxing Day, Arthur had brought Merlin with him to his sister’s house for their traditional holiday brunch. Morgana had opened the door, taken one look at Arthur, and at Merlin standing next to him holding his hand, and simply beamed.

 

Merlin had taken one look at Morgana, at Arthur’s beautiful, statuesque and elegant sister, and muttered under his breath, “Bloody hell Arthur, I knew you had a sister, but maybe you could have warned me she was also fucking gorgeous.”

 

Morgana had adored him ever since.

 

They had become fast friends over the past year, meeting up for coffee and separate lunches on their own, and texting each other on their mobiles, to the point where if Merlin hadn’t admitted that he was an absolute six on the Kinsey scale, Arthur would have been jealous.

 

But Merlin got along great with both Morgana and Gwen and he seemed to slide so seamlessly into their lives, it was as if he had always been there.

 

Yet Merlin always made it very clear that it was Arthur that he loved and Arthur’s side he would always stand beside. And that he meant it with everything he had.

 

And that had been so important to Arthur, because the past year had not been easy.

 

Arthur had avoided all of his father’s increasingly furious messages, choosing instead to focus on Merlin, until he returned to work the day after New Year’s. He had been immediately summoned to Uther’s office, where his father had shouted at him for embarrassing him and their family in front of Lord Olaf, and how, once again, Arthur was proving to be nothing but a disappointment.

 

When Arthur came out to Uther in the middle of his tirade, the yelling only got louder and nastier, but this time Arthur held his own, telling his father this was who he was, and who he always had been, and if Uther couldn’t accept that, that was his problem, not Arthur’s.

 

Uther refused to accept it, and when Arthur didn’t cave, didn’t retract what he had said, he threatened and then made good on his threat to cut Arthur off financially.

 

So on January second of the New Year, Arthur left Pendragon Industries for the last time, jobless, but with his head held high.

 

Then he went home and cried in Merlin’s arms. And Merlin, who had heard a little bit about their relationship from Arthur, held him and rocked him and let Arthur cry and cry and cry against his shoulder, for the father he had lost and the family he would never have again.

 

An hour later, Arthur felt another hand on the back of his head and looked up to see Morgana standing there, her eyes sympathetic and warm.

 

“Why did you call her?” Arthur accused Merlin, feeling small and ashamed.

 

“Because I know you think you’re alone right now, but you’re not.” Merlin answered, laying a gentle kiss to Arthur’s forehead. “And because she’s your sister and she loves you. We both do. And we want to make sure that you remember that you’re not alone, okay?”

 

“Listen to him, little brother,” Morgana added as she sat down on Arthur’s other side. She wrapped her arms around Arthur’s shoulders and the two of them held him while he cried out all of the bitterness, shame, anger and regret that his father had force-fed him for the past 27 years.

 

It hadn’t been easy, but Merlin was right, Arthur wasn’t alone. They formed a support network that helped Arthur through those very first weeks, Morgana and Gwen, Merlin, and even Merlin’s friends Percy and Gwaine. All of them reaching out and offering a helping hand and a shoulder to lean on, reminding Arthur that he was not alone.

 

But really, it was mostly Merlin. Merlin who smiled and encouraged him and laughed and made Arthur home cooked meals when he could see that Arthur was really struggling. And Merlin, who kissed and held him, shared his hopes and his fears, and his dogs and his cat with Arthur, simply because he was Merlin, and his spirit was that generous.

 

And because he loved Arthur, absolutely, with all of his heart.

 

After a short while, only a few weeks really, Arthur took another look around and made even more changes to his life. He decided not to look for another job in the financial industry, but to go back to university instead, so that he could finally, finally pursue a degree in the field he loved. While Arthur had hated his job, (and it felt good, _so good_ to finally be able to admit that out loud) he had been very good at it, and he had invested his earnings wisely. So while Arthur probably wouldn’t be dining at many Michelin starred restaurants in the future, he would be able to live comfortably for quite some time while he focused on getting his degree.

 

Both Merlin and Morgana had been nothing but supportive.

 

And then, three months after that, both Arthur and Merlin made another decision, where Arthur decided to let out his flat to rent and moved in with Merlin. It was one of the best and easiest decisions in his life.

 

So now Arthur’s days were filled with his classes, studying, writing papers and preparing for exams. The coursework was demanding, yet Arthur absolutely loved it.

 

And his nights were filled with movies and Doctor Who marathons, get togethers at the pub with fellow students, who were all as passionate about art as Arthur was, and meeting up with Percy and Gwaine for a quick round of footie at a local park.

 

But mostly, there was Merlin. Merlin who supported Arthur and was patient and understanding whenever Arthur stumbled a bit. And Merlin, who had a love for animals and his job, and the world around him in general. And Merlin, who on their first official date a few days after Christmas, had gone with Arthur to the British Museum, and stood quietly next to him, their hands entwined, while Arthur looked and looked and looked at all of the glorious artwork, that was even more beautiful this time, as his heart was now free when he looked at it.

 

It was a year filled with a lot of changes, but Arthur had to admit that they had mostly been good ones, wonderful ones, that were only made better because Merlin was there by his side, in his life, a steady bloom in his heart that was warmer than an Italian sunrise, more colourful than the Sistine Chapel, and sweeter than a kiss of honey on his lips.

 

“I’m almost ready, just give me a mo’ – Goddammit Aithusa, you tiny tyrant, give that back!” Arthur heard Merlin shout, and then he watched as the little cotton ball raced across the room, Merlin’s leather shoe in her mouth.

 

Arthur sighed and went back into the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator door, reached in and deliberately crinkled a bag of shredded cheddar cheese. Aithusa, Kilgarrah and Freya were all in the kitchen in a flash, Merlin’s shoe long forgotten.

 

“Thanks, love,” Merlin said, hopping into the kitchen on one foot, pulling on his shoe as he went. Once it was on, he straightened, stepped towards Arthur, and welcomed him back with a long and slow kiss. It was so sweet, so warm and so Merlin that Arthur almost lost himself and would have completely forgotten about the time if his mobile hadn’t dinged with an incoming text.

 

“Shite, shite. We need to go,” Arthur said, pulling away. “Get your coat on, come on.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Merlin said, reaching for his coat, pulling the now familiar Doctor Who scarf from the sleeve. As Merlin slid his arms into the jacket, Arthur carefully tied the scarf around his neck, making sure that all of that wonderful, pale skin was safely tucked in and protected from the cold. Merlin smiled at him the entire time.

 

“Ready, Merlin?” Arthur asked, once he was done.

 

“Yes, Arthur, I’m ready. But aren’t you forgetting something?” Merlin asked, pointing to the bag Arthur had tucked on top of the refrigerator.

 

“No, I’m not forgetting it,” Arthur said, as he took the container down. “But why you had to insist on bringing this, when you know Morgana and Gwen are going to have more than enough food, I have no idea.”

 

“Because, Arthur,” Merlin said, as he reached for Arthur’s hand and entwined their fingers together. “Everybody knows that you just absolutely have to have fried chicken from KFC for Christmas.”

 

And Arthur had to agree.

 

**FIN**


End file.
